


singularity.

by nodere



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A lot of this is about death and grieving, Angst, DLDR, Drugs, Feelings can't be helped but actions always can, Heist AU, I like both ships a lot but this is ultimately a sheith story, It's about how to move on and how not to move on, It's about rationalizing emotions and understanding them, It's about the things people do for love, It's about what constitutes infidelity, It's also about jealousy and hurt and misunderstandings, Life sometimes gets in the way and complicates things, M/M, NSFW, No Major Character Death, SHEITH - Freeform, Sex, Shiro is Alive, Voltron General Big Bang 2017, general violence, including the Blade of Marmora, klance, mentions of drinking and drunkenness, several Galra secondary characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 73,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nodere/pseuds/nodere
Summary: Under the direction of Takashi “Shiro” Shirogane, pharmaceutical magnate Allura Alforse’s appropriation specialists were elite and unrivaled. Yet when a disastrous mission costs them their leader, the team falls apart.Half a year later, and still mourning the loss of his best friend and lover, Keith receives a new assignment and must now step up to take Shiro’s place. Thinking this will be a simple information grab and heist, what Keith finds makes him question everything he thought he knew about the purpose of their last mission and the truth of what happened to Shiro. Caught between rival medical research companies, each with its own agenda, Keith and the rest of the team must decide once and for all where their loyalties lie.





	1. Like Tears in Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Voltron General Bang! 
> 
> This is the imperfect culmination of seven very long months spent trying to write a novella à la Voltron. I’d never finished a story of this length before, but here it is and I’m proud of myself for having accomplished it. 
> 
> I am so grateful to [Char](https://starbearstudio.tumblr.com/) for being such a wonderful friend and creating the Part 3 illustration for me in less than two weeks after my assigned art partner dropped out at the very last minute. The other two pieces are my own. I’m not an artist. I tried my best.
> 
> I am also thankful for Becky, who helped me get through this in so many ways. You have my love. 
> 
> There are things I’d like to talk about. Feel free to talk to me about this thing I wrote. [@nonedere](https://twitter.com/nonedere)

###  **Prologue**

“Shiro? You’ve got to get out of there!”

Pidge’s voice crackled through Keith’s earpiece with clear urgency. He checked the timer on his watch, finger tapping the seconds on the crystal.

_One minute thirty seconds, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven..._

_C’mon Shiro, what’s taking you so long? You should’ve been clear by now._

All was quiet as he adjusted his mic, glancing around the loading dock. “I’m going in.” Without waiting for a reply, Keith sauntered past the security booth, yanked the stolen badge from the reel clip on his vest pocket, and pressed it against the keypad. The latch clicked, and he pushed through the doors into the building. The guard in the booth paid him no heed, feet propped on the edge of the desk and fully immersed in some pulp romance. As soon as he cleared line of sight, he ran. Pidge had adjusted the camera feeds, and no one should be here at this hour on a weekend anyway.

“NO! Shit!” Pidge swore under her breath, but it carried through the microphone. “Keith! Get back to your post!”

Keith ignored her. He dashed down the hall toward the stairwell exit doors, shouldering his way through. Counting down silently in his head, he raced up the steps, taking them two at a time.

_Fifty, forty-nine…._

“Lance? Hunk?” Pidge called.

Hunk’s connection fizzled and hissed. “I thought you said getting this junker up and running was my highest priority? How am I supposed to hot-wire this beast if you want me to chase after Keith?”

“On it,” Lance’s mic sputtered to life. “Coordinates?”

“You’re good, Hunk. Lance, he’s heading toward the bomb, just GO!” she spat. Static rustled as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Striking the catch with his heel, Keith kicked through the street level entry. He vaulted over the turnstiles, sprinting hard across the marble tile of the main lobby and racing down the next hall.

_Thirty-two, thirty-one..._

Another door opened ahead of him. _Lance fucking McClain._ “Get out of my way,” Keith growled, not slowing. He glanced up at the ceiling, only two feet of clearance.

_Why does he have to be so damned tall?_

He closed the distance between them, but Lance showed no sign of moving.

_Fuck it._ Keith used the wall for leverage and tucked his knees into his chest, launching himself overhead. Lance ducked and reached for him awkwardly. Hands caught in his hair, but momentum pulled him through. He flipped mid-air and hit the ground running, thankful for the traction on his new boots. It would only take a moment for Lance to catch up.

Keith’s earpiece echoed as Lance’s voice projected from behind him and through the feed. “He did the thing!”

“I know. I’m watching your video. It’s called parkour. Hurry!” snapped Pidge. “Shiro?” she anxiously tried again. “Where ARE you? Why can’t I track you? Why is your camera out?”

“Pidge?” Shiro’s voice came through, suddenly clear. “I’ve almost got it.”

“You don’t have the time,” she screamed. “Just leave it! FUCK…. All of you get out of there NOW! Hunk! What are you doing? Just let Lance- Abort the goddamned mission!”

_Fifteen, fourteen..._

Keith kept going. _Through the double doors, third corridor, last door- Shiro?_ He looked around. _Shiro?_ The air sparked with an electric intensity. Through the plate glass windows, he saw all the way to the last lab, where he could just make out a single large form. _I’m coming._ Halted by a jolt from behind as a pair of long, brown arms wrapped around his chest, Keith tumbled to the polished concrete floor.

“Gotcha!” Lance muttered under his breath.

Keith scrambled to his feet with still Lance clinging to his back. He turned a full circle and wrenched his body forward, tossing the extra weight hard to the ground. Looking up again, Keith glimpsed Hunk in the doorway he’d just exited. _Shit._ He tried to start forward again, but his ankle caught suddenly in a strong grip. “Let go of me!” Stomping his foot, Keith tried to smash the hand the held him, but Lance pulled hard, and he went crashing down.

_Three, two..._

“SHIRO! GET OUT OF THERE NOW!” Pidge’s voice cracked with the strain of desperation.

The lab at the far end of the hall erupted in a thunderous boom of orange fire barreling through the windows, shattering glass, and flinging shrapnel as the planted bomb detonated.

“SHIRO!” Keith yelled at the chain blast of heat igniting the gas lines in the lab, from one to the next to the next. Steel I-beams creaked overhead. Staggering upright, he jerked himself out of Lance’s grasp but was caught by another pair of arms and lifted up into the air. He struggled to break free, snapping his head up and feeling the crunch of cartilage.

“Geez!” Hunk groaned, blood draining from his nose into Keith’s hair. “We have to get out, or we’re all dead. This building’s gonna collapse!”

Louder now, the drywall cracked and ceiling tiles fell like dominoes into the flames heading toward them on the wake of the dust and smoke enveloping the labs. Bottles and beakers blew out with pops and snaps, tinkling over the metal tables, benches, and cement. Keith breathed hard, eyes wide, frantically searching for a means of escape. He tried to pull away, twisting to grab the knife strapped to his belt, anything to get away, but Hunk’s hands clenched in an unshakable vise. His heart raced in his chest. _Shiro._

“SHIRO!” The sob wracked his entire body. Tears streamed down his soot-stained face from the corners of his eyes, pooling between his clavicles.

“Kei-” Shiro’s connection cut off.

“Fuck! Shit! FUCK! I’ve lost him! Guys? GUYS?” Pidge barked into their ears.

“SHIRO! I AM NOT LEAVING WITHOUT SHIRO!” The smoke burned his lungs, his frenzied shouting bordered on hysterics. He tried to twist away, kicking back to no avail and receiving a swift jab to his kidneys in return.

“A little help here, Lance?” Hunk asked, desperate to maintain his hold on Keith.

The last things he remembered were Lance’s eyes, brighter than the thermosphere at the edge of space, and a regretful, “Sorry about this one,” before he felt a sharp pain in his jaw and darkness enveloped the world.

+

Adjusting her sunglasses, Allura rolled up the passenger side window of the sedan. Lance, Pidge, and Hunk, carrying Keith’s limp form draped over his shoulder, emerged from the alley. They rushed to their getaway, coated in white dust and grit, Hunk with a smear of blood down his face and the front of his shirt. Clouds of plaster streamed from the doors and windows of the imploding building, one of the many satellite laboratories of Galran Technologies. Shiro would soon follow, she was sure of it. She took out her phone and waited for the dial tone before pressing 2, followed by the pound sign. As expected, it rang exactly three times before her call was answered.

“Looks like we got it, _friend_. You owe me dinner. Tonight. My pick.” 

 

###  **i.**

**Six Months Later**

From Keith’s perspective, sex with Lance was exclusively about physical fulfillment, and to that end, he treated it like a transaction. He was still unable to bear the thought of having someone with him in his bed who was not Shiro, and he was doing his very best not to let himself think about Shiro, so there he was, with Lance up against the thin wall that separated his room from Hunk’s.

When Keith thought about it, really thought about it, Lance was the comet passing too close to the sun. He had careened into the roiling corona, trajectory knocked off-course by some unnamed astral body, and speared through by a solar flare that fractured his solid ice core. Stellar winds scattered the shards, an incandescent trail in his wake as he gave himself up, swallowed by fire.

Keith had Lance for breakfast.

It wasn’t a fancy repast, nor was it plain, being the sort of meal which started with an opening course of bated breath and furtive kissing, and then jumped into the crescendo of lube-slickened pleasure as Keith pounded into him, the warm sweat of their bodies coming together. Each thrust threatened to split Lance apart, his gut and thighs trembling. He gasped and sighed, panting moans of increasing need, pumping himself with Keith’s face pressed into his back at the nape of his neck and tears rolling down his cheeks. Keith gripped his hips with strong hands, callused fingertips holding him together, pressing hard, but always careful to leave no marks.

So very much alive yet the fire burned less bright. The star was beginning to die.

They repeated this ritual nearly every morning. Boning Lance was like hitting the snooze button, nine more minutes before starting the day. He had told Lance time and again that the only thing he wanted out of this arrangement was, to put it bluntly, fucking. That was the truth, and he was in no way out to take advantage. Exploitation was Lance’s job; earning the trust of strangers, preying on their ignorance, using charm and charisma to create a false sense of security and confidence. All this, however, did not mean Keith didn’t enjoy it or the rare occasions upon which Lance would initiate. He thought of the smooth palms gliding across his chest, fluttering kisses along his neck and jawline, licking, teeth nipping at his earlobe and catching over the scars of old piercings, the soft, low whisper of his name, the warm breath in his hair. Behind the closed door, Lance was genuine, attentive, and responsive. Keith had never been sucked off by anyone better, but he would break before admitting that. It was less actual skill and more Lance’s ability to read his partner and a willingness to be what it was that person needed. Keith should never have let it go this far, should have ended it before it had begun, but there was no denying desire, and he savored every moment.

He didn’t ever quite have it in him to kick Lance out when they were done, so Keith would leave him there to curl up on the bed. He would have sworn Lance cried, weeping into the pillow. _His_ pillow. He pretended not to notice.

Afterward, Keith slept on the sofa.

He managed all of exactly seventeen minutes and eight seconds, eyes shut in a semblance of sleep before Pidge ruffled his hair and smacked his cheek. “Ow!” he whined, rubbing his face.

“Get up, sleepyhead.”

“No.” Keith rolled over and buried his head under a throw pillow long since stained with a permanent grease spot from his hair.

Hunk emerged from the bathroom he shared with Keith, toothbrush in his mouth, noise-canceling headphones around his neck, the geometric designs of his tattoos, the Samoan Pe’a, peeking out between the waistband of his pants and the first button of his nightshirt as he moved. “Give him a break, it’s Saturday.” Toothpaste dripped down his chin, and he wiped it off with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Coran is picking us up in fifteen minutes,” Pidge declared. “Word’s out we’re getting a new assignment.”

Keith tossed the pillow away and turned onto his back. A hangnail on his middle finger caught and pulled on the ridges of the coarse upholstery. “It’s certainly been a while.” He plunged the finger into his mouth, gnawing at the offending shred of skin. The day’s worth of scum on his teeth distracted him, and he scraped across his molars before using the points of his lower canines to clean the plaque out from under his nail. His jaw clicked, and the sudden sharp pain made him stop. After all this time, it still wasn’t quite right. He massaged the joint.

_So Allura has a job, huh?_ Finally. He knew they wouldn’t be kept on payroll like this forever. They’d been doing their time in security rotation but hadn’t done any real work in months. _Look at what happened last time._

His eyes wandered over to Shiro’s room, or the place where Shiro’s room had been, nestled between the kitchen and the bathroom now shared, theoretically, between Pidge and Lance. Pidge stood in front of the open fridge, presumably assessing her options for breakfast. She wore the flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers Shiro had given her for Christmas the year before after complaining that the 74 degrees Fahrenheit at which they kept the condo, for her sake, was still too cold.

The open kitchen and common area separated the two sides of bedrooms. Hunk had since knocked out two of the walls to Shiro’s old room and enlarged the kitchen into that space to include expanded countertops, more cabinets and racks for storage, a double oven, and a stainless steel gas range. None of them complained. If Hunk didn’t feed them, which he honestly enjoyed doing, Pidge would have subsisted on a diet of cereal, Keith on fast food and pizza, and Lance on takeout and leftovers.

It did help that every time Keith left his room, he no longer risked the distraction of looking in at Shiro’s empty bed. For the first few weeks, he had closed the door, but that had only made it worse. Shiro wasn’t coming home.

So much for not thinking about Shiro.

Keith sat up, yawning, having hoped to get more sleep. He scratched his head vigorously, tangling his hair and snowing flakes of dander onto the shoulders of his t-shirt. He needed a shower, which might have to wait as he watched Hunk return to the bathroom, trying the now locked door and slumping in defeat.

Lance.

Hunk banged on it with a fist. “Hey dude, go piss in your own can.”

The toilet flushed and the sink faucet shut off several long moments later. Keith heard a distinct, “Hey baby!” likely directed at Lance’s own reflection before the door opened and the modern dandy himself in his royal blue silk pajamas and velvet smoking slippers, sauntered out with a two-finger salute to Hunk and a sparkling, manufactured grin.

Hunk humphed and took over the bathroom.

“Baby?” Keith eyed Lance, one eyebrow quirked as he knelt on the cushions, arms folded on the sofa back beneath his chin.

Lance stopped, cocking a hip. He smirked and clicked his tongue, snapping double pistols at Keith, winking.

Keith rolled his eyes and made gagging noises, watching Lance continue across the floor to disappear into the room next to Pidge’s.

“Aw, baby doesn’t like being called ‘baby.’” Nothing was ever lost on Pidge. “And unless you’re trying to grow a beard, will you please shave?”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” They stared at each other a short time before she ran a finger along her jaw, just under her chin. He got the message and wiped at the place, a white sticky substance on his fingers stringing from his stubble as he pulled his hand away.

Keith licked his fingers, dried them on the leg of his yoga pants, groaned, and flopped back over.

He needed to get these Lancecapades under control. 

 

###  **ii.**

They arrived at the Altea Industries headquarters, a tall white structure that Shiro had once jokingly dubbed “The Ivory Tower.” Coran marshaled them across the threshold and into Allura Alforse’s penthouse office. The princess herself, having inherited the company from her father, observed them from behind her oversized mahogany desk as they entered, stacks of papers to either side with one of those tacky and outdated green-shaded banker’s lamps inexplicably popular among office decorators. Shelves overstuffed with books rose behind her to the ceiling, and just above the antique marble fireplace hung an intimidating, larger-than-life, full portrait of her father, the magnate himself.

A gas fire blazed, yet Keith could not feel the heat where he stood. He zipped his jacket and pulled the knit beanie down farther over his ears.

Curiosities and baubles, miniature decorative chests, ornaments, and jewels littered the shelves and the mantel. Keith scanned the office for the one piece that he always looked for and found it, moved from the corner of her desk to a new position over the fireplace where it now sat facing him; a black onyx lion, slightly larger than his fist, with gold inlaid detailing and jeweled blue sapphire and garnet wings. The first time he had seen it, he’d thought it was a griffin, but Allura had corrected him. It was most definitely a lion, a lion with wings.

Keith stood in deliberate, balanced contrapposto, shoulders back, arms crossed over his chest. He followed her gaze down the line one by one, her lips slightly parted, seemingly agape. She shut her mouth when she caught him staring and continued scrutinizing each of them one by one, concern evident on her face.

Hunk covered a yawn with his hand then stretched his thick arms, bored.

Lance leaned back to scratch behind his knee. The _Sex Pistols_ shirt he had scavenged from the battleground wreckage of Keith’s room was too small; it stretched across his chest and wrinkled at his sternum. When Keith had complained about filching his clothes, Lance claimed to have sent all of his own things to the cleaner, which might have been true. Oversized sweats, recognizably Hunks, were tied tight at Lance’s waist, bunching at his ankles and almost covering his leather beach sandals.

Pidge pulled up the only free chair in the office and crouched on the seat, arms folded around her knees, waiting. Beneath her wool peacoat, she had not changed out of her pajamas. Her glasses slid down her nose, and she nudged them back into place with a finger.

Keith concluded that they might perhaps be the most motley and casual delinquents Allura had ever employed. Shiro would never have let them show up like this, but then Shiro wasn’t there and Keith sure as hell wasn’t stepping in to clean up this act.

Coran walked down the line assessing the lot, pulling Hunks hands apart, correcting Lance’s posture, frowning at Pidge who refused to even look at him as he tugged the beanie off Keith’s head. Hair still wet from the shower spilled into his eyes and curled out just above his shoulders. Perhaps Coran could take over for Shiro; he certainly seemed to like sorting people out.

“Where are your manners, young man?” Coran off-handedly held out the offending article for him to take.

“He doesn’t have any,” quipped Pidge.

“More than you. I actually put clothes on that I didn’t sleep in.” Keith shot back, snatching the proffered hat. He stuffed it into his belt, behind the dagger hidden by a threadbare red and black plaid shirt tied at his hips.

Okay, maybe he didn’t have any manners.

They waited.

Allura clasped and unclasped her hands over the fresh desk pad, lips pursed, shoulders rolled forward. “I see the time off has had its effects. Perhaps it has been a bit too long?” she spoke, her accent annoyingly unplaceable as always.

None of them replied, the silence so still Keith could hear the gears and ticking hands of the clock on her desk and the rumbles of heat being pushed upward through the air vents.

She continued, tucking a stray lock of silvery hair back up into her massive bun, securing it with a comb of inlaid mother-of-pearl. “You all look well at least.”

“As do you, twilight.” Lance winked, seizing his opportunity with a smile. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the edge of the desk. “You radiate so bright, you make me wanna blow supernova o-“

Keith shot him a look of warning, digging him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Lance!” _Why are you like this?_

Lance pulled back immediately. Allura merely raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Pidge exclaimed. “The brightest radiating light _is_ the supernova.”

“Or a very small evaporating black hole, but then you wouldn’t really be radiating, it’d be more like a flashbang,” Hunk added, complete with a hand-blast to illustrate his point. “Well, maybe just the flash part. No bang. You can’t hear the bang in space.”

Lance shrugged, “It sounded pretty smooth though, right?”

“Not really.” Hunk pulled his hands down the sides of his face.

Allura’s mouth turned up with a sardonic twist, “It needs a little work.”

Keith went back to counting the minutes in his head and checked his watch to confirm. He was rarely off. “Can you just get to the point?” He asked, tolerance waning thin. “We’re all tired. It’s seven forty-three in the morning.”

Allura issued Keith a level glare and sighed. “I don’t have much to go on, which is why I summoned you here-”

“It wasn’t a summons,” Pidge interrupted. “You hassled Coran until he texted me, with a gazillion different apologies I might add, to let us know we might actually have an assignment.”

Coran started forward and then paused. He had hardly said a word to any one of them since he had arrived at the condo to bring them here.

“You know, you shouldn’t abuse him like this,” Pidge continued. “He does so mu-”

“Pidge…” Keith pressed his knuckles into his sinuses, just above the bridge of his nose. He had to think before this escalated. They needed the work, and Allura paid them very well for that work, but how to convey that this treatment was both invasive and inconsiderate? _What would Shiro do?_ Shiro would have known how to deal with this, but he did not want to think about Shiro. Every time he did his brain eventually made its way back to that last transmission, replaying it in his head. It was _his_ name. Shiro had called hi-

Allura cleared her throat, drawing Keith’s attention back to the present. “Zarkon is keeping a secret from me, and I want to know what it is.”

Keith let his hands fall to his sides, shifting and leaning forward. “That’s it? Come ON! You could have told us that over the phone. Altea Industries and Galran Technologies have been at each other’s throats for decades. First your dad and now you and whatshisface Zarkon-“

“Daibazaal-” Allura began to fill in but was cut off.

“Whatever. You and _Zarkon_ go out for dinner every Tuesday. You chit chat, you have tea, you’ve even got the guy’s number on speed dial.”

“How do you know I have him on speed dial?” Allura raised her voice, revealing her sudden suspicion.

Pidge’s eyes darted around, her hand sheepishly elevated to the level of her glasses for a brief second before she tucked it back around her knees.

Keith grimaced. _Fuck._ He shouldn’t have given away that he knew. This sort of mistake was why he avoided responsibility. When provoked, or if he thought he could change an outcome he didn’t like, his ability to keep himself in check just vanished. Now she’d start wondering what other secrets they might have ferreted out. He probably knew a lot of things she didn’t think he did. They all did. It was one part familiarity and four parts skillset. And one should always know their employer. “There has got to be more to it than this!” he deflected.

Allura shook her head. “I have nothing else. All I am asking is for you to find out what his secret is.”

Keith found himself unable to conceal his irritation. His lip curled in disgust, eyes fixed at a point on the ceiling as he took a deep breath and another. So much for trying to think like Shiro. Usually, there was a target or a directive, maybe even a file with some information about the mark. _What’s the deal with this vague, “Weeeeell, there might be a confidential matter of interest to me, but I don’t know what it is, so can you figure that part out?” Allura, you are nothing more than a petulant little girl, do you know that? Fucking Childlike Empress._ He finally got the joke. It wasn’t very good, but Shiro’s jokes were notoriously bad.

Lance snorted back a nose full of snot and Hunk stretched again, cracking each of his vertebrae up to his shoulders. Pidge leaned back in her chair, letting out a deep, rattling sigh. They were, all of them, watching him.

Allura continued, “I expect your first report tonight, before 18:00 hours.”

Keith’s brows drew together. He could not believe this; their first assignment in months and it was absolute bullshit. Something else must be going on. Or was it? Allura could be extremely petty when it came to the rivalry between her company and Zarkon’s, and she had the bandwidth to chase after her every whim.

She smiled wryly. “Oh, and congratulations, Kogane. It looks like you’re the leader now.”

Dread and nausea settled in the pit of his stomach. So that was the catch. He shook his head, the world a sudden fisheye lens with him at dead center. He stared back at Allura with challenging defiance.

She nodded. “Dismissed.”

They left the office with less decorum than they had entered, Keith trailing last. He turned to Allura one last time, palms up, asking the unspoken question. _Why?_

“What?” Her voice seemed loud now, just the two of them in her spacious office with its high ceiling and large, draped windows. “Because you were the right-hand man? They do respect you, you know. In case that had to be pointed out?”

He didn’t like that answer, and he certainly thought of himself as in no way better than the rest of the team. If anything, Pidge was smarter, Hunk more compassionate, and Lance was the most authentic person he had ever encountered when not hiding behind pretense.

Allura’s shoulders lifted and she tilted her head slightly to one side, leaning back in her chair. She exhaled. “Shiro named you his successor, okay?”

Shiro thought _he_ could do this? More likely he’d said that in jest, thinking he’d never die. Another really bad joke. “What’s the pay grade?” He had to know.

“Add a third.”

Reducing the job to a price wasn’t making him feel any better, he actually felt worse, dirty even, as if a monetary value could be placed on a life. “I don’t really have a choice.” Someone would have to assume the role.

“No.”

“Fine,” he paused, “I’ll do what I can.” He started toward the exit.

“One more thing, Keith.”

“Yes?” He stopped, turning back toward her.

“Get a haircut.”

“No.” He cut her a hard stare, then tossed his hair as he pivoted and made for the door. Pulling it shut behind him with more force than intended, he crossed the threshold. Aggrieved, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The team, _his_ team, was waiting for him in the hall.

Lance drew him close as they walked to the car, arm draped around his neck. “Glad it’s you and not me.” He glanced back over Keith’s shoulder toward the office door, stroking his hair and smoothing it down. “I can’t believe she said that,” he said. “I for one like your stupid mullet.”

Keith shrugged and sidestepped away from the familiar embrace. “Get off.”

“Suit yourself,” Lance had no pockets. Instead, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats as he ambled along. Keith admired the way he could make it seem like the world rolled right off his back.

“It’s not really a mullet, you know,” corrected Pidge. “It’s more like he hasn’t cut his hair in half a year and is starting to look like he crawled out of a cave.”

“You’re one to talk, miss wears-pj’s-to-work.”

Hunk scrutinized Keith’s hair, tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth and a finger to his chin. “Nah, it’s definitely a mullet. It’s like MacGyver.”

Keith drew his lips into a thin line at that, brow furrowed. “Don’t say that again.”

Hunk frowned as sadly as he could and traced the line of a tear down from an eye. “Aw somebody’s sensitive about his hair.”

“What do you have against MacGyver?” Pidge asked.

Keith said nothing.

“At least you shaved,” Pidge continued. “I bet _Lance_ will appreciate that.”

“Silky smooth like a baby dolphin, but I’m still waiting for him to let me wax his treasure trail.” Lance pouted, turning on his heel, walking backward and batting his eyes at Keith in jest.

“EW NO!” Keith’s cheeks burned, and he stretched his legs to reach him, punching Lance in the shoulder when he did, hard enough so that he stumbled but not quite enough to knock him down. “Gross! You are not getting hot wax anywhere near there.”

“Heh.” Lance shook his head, amused and jogged to catch back up with Pidge.

Hunk made no attempt to disguise his laughter. 

 

###  **iii.**

Pidge slurped the remaining drops of soda through her straw and rattled the ice. Pounding her fist into her chest, she belched loudly before slamming the cup down onto the coffee table. Droplets of condensation sprayed over the surface and dripped down to pool in a ring. She tipped the last of the fries out into her open palm, picking out the crunchy bits and popping them into her mouth one by one before brushing the rest back into the box.

Hunk shot her a look of stern disapproval, handing up a napkin from his usual spot on the floor.

She took it, sopping up the water from the table before wiping her salty, greasy hands on the legs of her pajamas. Finished with her lunch, Pidge reached under the sofa for her laptop. She flipped it open and began typing furiously, keys clacking harder than necessary.

Lance slid into the remaining space beside her, scratching his ribs and playing with the drawstring on the oversized sweatpants he still wore. Keith had curled himself up in the armchair to avoid physical contact, leaving his half-eaten burger on the table.

“So what’s the game plan, fearless leader?” Hunk asked, leaning back on his elbows, eyes locked on Keith.

It had taken several hours and a bribe of food to get them all to focus on the assignment from that morning.

Lance leaned his head backward off the armrest.

“Don’t look at me.”

Pidge abruptly stopped. “We’re all looking at you, Keith.”

Keith dug into his ear with his pinky to scratch an itch, afterward flicking the wax out from beneath his nail. Still stalling, he stretched, pulling his elbows behind his head one at a time, holding each for a long count of ten. He shifted.

They were still staring at him.

_What would Shiro do?_ He had asked himself this same question earlier, and now, put on the spot, he found himself drawing a blank. _Fuck it._ He had spent too much time thinking about Shiro anyway. It was just panning out to be one of those days.

_All right Keith, what are you going to do?_

Fake it.

“Okay, Pidge,” he cracked his knuckles, planted his feet firmly on the floor, and then leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he asked, “What is the current state of the Galran Empire?”

Pidge grinned conspiratorially, light glinting off her lenses. “Let’s find out.” She tapped out her query, hit return, and waited.

“Stocks were pretty volatile last week.” Pidge glanced over at the resident day trader, but Lance merely yawned, covering his mouth as he did so. She continued, “The company appears to be doing very well overall with a 57% profit margin. No recent changes in structure or management. There’s a chili cookout this Saturday in the park for all employees and their families, a press release about charity work with the veterans’ memorial hospital. It looks like President and CEO Daibazaal Zarkon is having dinner Tuesday with Ms. Alforse. That’s from her calendar.” Pidge’s mouth curved down as she spoke, scanning her screen, typing some more and clicking the trackpad.

“Anything about current projects, breakthroughs with the cybernetic, uh…” Keith tried to recall the correct word for it, “Biomechatronic interface systems?”

“Biomechawhowha?” Lance asked.

“Keith had it. Biomechatronic.” Hunk confirmed. “Technology that interfaces an electronic device with the nervous system.”

Both Galran Technologies and Altea Industries supported labs large enough to research and develop the field with pockets deep enough to maintain a competitive edge. Galran Tech focused strongly on medical engineering while Altea Industries had an established foothold in pharmaceuticals. There was a significant amount of crossover, however. Something had happened between Allura’s father and Zarkon decades ago that had set them, once friends, at odds. Allura had committed herself and the company she now owned to maintaining and occasionally feeding that feud.

Pidge very slowly shook her head, but after a few more clicks she looked up from her screen. “This sounds interesting. It looks like Allura’s pal, Zarkon, is putting his entire personal antiquities collection on display for public view at the headquarters. He’s been collecting since the 60s, and this will be the first time many of these pieces have been on exhibit in over 50 years. The opening gala is invitation only to be held two weeks from today-“

“Well, let’s go!” Lance interrupted, stretching his hands out toward Keith and wickedly grinning his Cheshire smile.

Keith, although well out of reach, huffed with disdain at the gesture.

“There are sure to be a lot of people there, and security throughout the rest of the building will likely be lighter,” Pidge added.

“Am I the only one who thinks this is kind of silly? ‘Cause this is kind of silly.” Hunk remained unconvinced.

“Isn’t it? She must be desperate,” Keith agreed.

“She is though?” Lance spoke up, speculating. “Like that miracle magic healing drug she’s been working on that has been in development for decades. Since the mid-80s at least, right?” He looked to Pidge for confirmation.

“Oh! Quintessence? Yeah, I think her father started the project in ‘84, but it hasn’t really gone anywhere.”

Keith blinked. “It did though.”

Lance sat up and rested his chin in his palms, elbows propped on his knees. “What do you mean?”

“Our last mission?”

“Failure parameters met.” Pidge sank glumly behind her screen.

“I’m serious. Allura said she wanted to do some reverse engineering on the Galran counterpart.”

Hunk considered this a moment as he glanced around at his teammates. “Okay. Maybe it could be a start.”

Keith shrugged. “We have nothing else to go on.”

 

###  **iv.**

Procuring an invitation to the gala was easier said than done. In the end, they’d resorted to various workarounds to get past security. Lance was the only one of the four going in through the main door; he would be attending as the plus one of some Caribbean private sector banking CFO. Keith hadn’t wanted to know how he had managed that, yet he’d listened to Lance prattle on about his many unsuccessful attempts at charming the short list of ladies on the guest register. Finally, he had decided to just steal an invitation from a man whom he’d thought would be an easy target, but upon being caught red-handed, had managed to earn the invite instead. That was the sort of magic only Lance was able to pull off.

Keith wondered if he was supposed to be jealous. Lance’s face fell briefly sullen when he did not react to the part of the story where the grifter enjoyed several nice meals with the man, coffee lunch breaks, maybe a “first kiss” or three.

What had he expected? This was his line of work.

And Keith was not in love with him.

He wasn’t going to talk about it. Ever. Besides, Lance kept his heart in a locker, wrapped up in seaweed, and buried in sand leagues beneath frothy whitecaps. Or so Keith had thought. Lately, he hadn’t been so sure of that.

Keith found his suit, an outdated, wrinkled garment with an unidentifiable odor and a mysterious encrusted accretion on the breast that he had mostly picked off, carefully pulling out the larger chunks, and brushing it away. The fit was poor, and he had been unable to decide if that was because he was out of shape or if it had always been that way and he had never noticed. It might have been both.

Lance discovered him cringing at his reflection in the full-length mirror appropriated from Shiro’s belongings. He permitted the jacket to be tugged into place, his mouth a thin line as he endured the indignity.

Straightening Keith’s collar, Lance gave the whole another once-over, then grimly shook his head. “This just won’t do.”

Less than an hour later, Keith found himself in the passenger seat of Lance’s custom built Maserati GranTurismo heading downtown. The California plate read “LEON AZL” and the _Blu Mediterraneo_ paint job sparkled like the sea. Keith had mistakenly called it blue once, and in return had been forced to endure an hour-long lecture on tints and hues and their application to automobile enamel. Never again.

They made an incongruous pair for their adventure into the fashion district. Lance wore slim white pants and boat shoes with a light gray collared shirt, navy jacket, and coordinating belt and neck scarf. Keith had donned the least offensive articles that could be recycled from the floor of the shambolic cesspit where he kept his things and a well-worn 80s motorcycle jacket with fringe down each sleeve and across the back. He felt conspicuously out of place in every store they entered; he did not belong to this brand of luxe.

Eventually finding a suit he liked, Keith was so appalled by the price tag that Lance ended up making the purchase for him. The garment had been cut from a soft charcoal wool suiting with a single-thread, burgundy pinstripe. It fit well and required minimal adjustment.

“You know they call me The Tailor for a reason.” Lance had joked with a wink.

Keith had thought it was because Lance had stitched him up at least seven times that he could remember.

Looking at himself now, a day later, Keith thought it was a significant improvement over the other suit. For all of the stress of finding something that looked sharp, it could not be said that Lance lacked style or taste. The thing about Lance was that he regularly invented and reinvented himself, like an ever-shifting tide, moving in and out with the constancy of the Moon. His outer shell was his life support, his cover. Below that, his soul lay bare, dissevered and drowning, but no one had to go there and Lance kept that part tightly under wraps.

Keith felt like he was wearing a costume. Perhaps he should never have let Lance talk him into this ensemble, though he had been quick to give up on what he’d managed to unearth from the depths of his closet. Everything about it was uncomfortable from the deep, ruby red of his skinny tie down to the way the black leather, ten times overpriced, Santoni Oxford boots pinched his toes and chafed at his ankles. He’d been instructed to start breaking them in. He hadn’t done it.

He found himself thinking about the evening, feeling the same impending heaviness he had before the last big assignment. He wanted a cigarette. It had been six months since he’d quit and he still found himself feeling that sickly yearn. That was addiction. Yet even though Shiro wasn’t around to complain about it anymore, he told himself he was sticking to it.

Keith flicked his wrist and pushed back the cuff of his sleeve to check his watch; it was almost time to go. The timepiece was yet another gift from Lance after accidentally stepping on and destroying Keith’s trusted digital sports watch. Lance had made a big deal out of replacing it. “Rolex Oyster Perpetual Cosmograph Daytona in steel and gold with a scratch-resistant sapphire crystal,” he had proudly announced upon handing over the wrapped box.

Keith had no idea what half of those words meant in context; he just liked the little gold crown logo and black dial. It kept time almost as accurately as he did.

Someone rapped on his door. “Keith?” It was Pidge.

He unlocked the door and let her inside. She held up his transmitter in one hand, lavalier and earpiece in the other, waggling them in front of him like a cat toy. “You’re last.”

“Okay.” He shot his hand out, making a grab for the equipment, but she drew in her hands, shaking her head.

“No,” her tone stern. “I’m putting it on you, so I know it’s right.”

“Pidge, come on. I’ve always done it before.”

“Yeah, well last time, Keith,” she emphasized his name, speaking measured and clear, chin puckering as she frowned,” I let you all do your own, and we lost Shiro.” She clenched her teeth together and gulped, sniffing back her grief.

They’d been through this already, and Keith had told her over and over it was not because of her. She had tested all the equipment; she always did. It was unlikely the tracking, vitals, and mic would all go at the same time. It had to have been a fluke, or Shiro had disabled his feed intentionally. He squeezed her shoulder.

It didn’t help the hurt and he knew that all too well.

“Fine.” Keith shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

Pidge made the final adjustments to her handiwork as the door opened and Lance stepped in, eyes wide. “Whoa! I didn’t think you leaned that way.”

“I’m not his type,” Pidge said as she let herself out.

“Shove it, Lance.” Keith threw himself backward onto the mattress pad, buttoning his shirt.

Lance watched her pull the door shut behind her. “You have a type?”

“Yeah, and it’s not you either.”

“I thought the only prerequisites were having a pulse and breathing.”

“Did you just disqualify yourself?”

“Ouch.” Lance joined him after removing his navy blue dinner jacket to avoid wrinkles. “So, have you?”

“Have I what?” Keith narrowed his eyes, glancing over at Lance, who shifted uncomfortably, raising a knee and catching his heel on the edge of the mattress.

“Slept with Pidge.” Lance turned his head to meet Keith’s eyes.

“Why would you even ask that?”

“Because you’ve fucked the rest of us at one point or another.”

Keith stared at him, waiting.

Lance continued, “Hunk told me.”

Keith made no acknowledgment, but it had happened. Hunk might even be the most heterosexual guy he’d ever messed around with, but it had been a mutual experiment, both of them a little too drunk, and they’d just let it go in the end. “Why does this matter? We’re leaving to do a job in less than an hour and you’ve decided now is a good time to talk about _my_ exploits. It’s none of your business.” He stood up. “Priorities, Lance, and in case you didn’t get the memo, it doesn’t work that way. I’m not like you; I’m not bi, and I can’t fake it on demand.”

“I’ve never faked it with you.”

“I never implied that.” He took a deep breath. “What are you getting at?”

“You’ve been around.”

“So?”

“You haven’t just _been_ around; you _get_ around. Am I the only one? Right now?”

“Yes. Look, I was with Shiro exclusively for three years, and,” he paused, making sure he had Lance’s full attention, “if I were to consider other partners, I would tell you first. It’s called being sexually responsible.” Sometimes, like right now when Lance was reminding him of how he’d been, it was important to remember that he hadn’t settled on Shiro. He had _decided_ Shiro was important enough for that commitment.

What did that mean for Lance?

Lance gave no reply, but that must have been sufficient because he immediately perked up. Rousing himself from the bed, he retrieved Keith’s jacket from the floor. “You should hang this up when you aren’t wearing it.”

Keith slipped his arms inside as Lance held it out for him and lifted it over his shoulders.

“Good enough?”

“Sublime.” Lance ran smooth palms across Keith’s shoulders and down his arms, face pressed into his glossy black hair.

“Are you trying to give me heartburn?” Keith said, brushing him off in mild annoyance.

Adjusting the tie that Keith had spent over an hour learning to knot from various internet tutorials, Lance scrutinized him again. Lance pursed his lips thoughtfully, pulling Keith’s hair back and pushing up his bangs, revealing a natural hairline interrupted by a small widow’s peak and a very pale scar above his right eye. “You should tie your hair back. It’d look really good.”

Keith pretended not to hear the compliment. He tapped at his earpiece, wired up from below his collar, “Everyone will see this.”

Lance nodded, letting go of his hair before attempting to pull him close.

“Wait,” Keith interrupted, freeing himself as he made his way over to his nightstand. “I forgot something.” He grabbed his dagger and yanking up his pant leg, strapped the sheath on just above his ankle. “That feels better.” _But I don’t._ His stomach churned, and cold perspiration beaded up at the back of his neck.

No embrace, no good luck kisses. This was how Keith wanted it. He didn’t ask what Lance might want; that wasn’t part of their deal.

Lance grabbed his jacket. “You know, I won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“Sleep with my date.”

“Did I ask?”

“No. But it’s important to me that you know.”

“Okay.” They exited the room. Hunk and Pidge were waiting for them.

Hunk had managed to take over the catering for the evening. It was one of those things he’d kept a hand in, just to dabble, try out new dishes with local foodies and take the jobs himself when he wanted them.

They would all ride together, first dropping Lance off around the corner from his date’s condo. Pidge and Keith would continue with Hunk in the van as part of the catering crew to gain entrance to the building.

From there, it would be simple enough for Pidge to infiltrate herself into security as IT. While she would have preferred to stay outside the building, from what she’d been able to tell, it was a closed system, and she couldn’t hack in from the outside.

Keith would assist Hunk with the set-up and join the guests for the event part way through.

They had the easy part covered. 

 

###  **v.**

Hunk and Keith worked the floor alongside each other in matching black vests with lurid purple and silver ties. Fortunately for Keith, Hunk knew what he was about and had been sure to purchase zipper ties. Hunk had ribbed him with a wink when they had put them on in the galley, “A perfect knot every time.” The irony being that Hunk could tie a tie at least six different ways that Keith had seen and probably more that he had not. Keith’s dinner jacket and carefully knotted crimson tie had been stashed away beneath the skirt of a cart for when he would need them later.

Hunk assigned Keith to the wine so he wouldn’t have to describe the hors d’oeuvres. There were only two options, and Hunk had taken his input into account when choosing them. Keith’s favorite, if he had to pick since he rarely drank wine at all, was a cherry Shiraz. Shiro’s had been a Riesling. All Keith had to do was recite his scripted lines and respond accordingly to whatever a guest asked.

Someone left an exhibition guide on the refreshment table, and Keith pocketed it, stealing glances until he had the map memorized. The artifacts were displayed through fifteen large gallery-style rooms. Keith wondered if the rooms had been there before or if the lobby had been parceled out and converted exclusively for the show.

The opening turned out to be smaller than he had expected, with a relatively short guest list of the board of directors, financial lenders, the higher ranked individuals within the company, and a few others, friends and acquaintances. The biggest downside of having to set up for the event was the fact that they had missed the formal opening speech.

“I’ve got you all on-screen here.” Pidge’s voice came sharply through the earpiece. “Vitals good.”

She received no response, but only Hunk and Keith could have replied, and it might have appeared strange if the servers were seen talking to themselves. Pidge had thought it might be a bad idea to fully wire Lance. It could be noticed by his date if no one else. His mic was pinned behind his lapel. Most of what it picked up was static.

Hunk located Zarkon first. His voice, barely a whisper, crackled through his feed. “He’s taking some white-haired lady around to view his collection. Can’t have food in the galleries, though.”

“White-haired lady not Allura?” Keith asked, bending over to grab an empty tray from the table.

“Correct.”

One of them would have to check that out. He made his way over to Lance. “Shiraz?”

Lance took a glass from his tray with an air of languid exasperation. He gulped down a rather large mouthful, swirled the contents of his glass, sniffed, and then sipped it delicately. “Not bad. My compliments to our host. It reminds me of someone.” He dipped his head slightly in a subtle nod to Keith.

“How is your date?” Keith asked, with a quirk of his brow, looking up at him expectantly.

“He got roped into a conversation with some of the Galran business partners. I’m going to check out the collection.”

“Your host is in there somewhere. You might want to thank him personally.” Keith suggested, raising his chin in a gesture toward the first open gallery.

“Ah. Okay.” Lance set his glass back on Keith’s tray and started toward the first room.

“Excuse you.” Keith stiffened and tossed his hair out of his eyes, glaring after Lance before remembering he shouldn’t be doing any of those things. Now he’d have to do something about Lance’s half empty wine glass. He considered just leaving it on the tray and letting someone else grab it. Hunk would be appalled, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

Lance turned back to him, the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Did you say something?”

“ _Space juice_ ,” Keith replied flatly.

Lance laughed, shaking his head. Keith knew he’d be hassled about it later.

It was time to swap roles; he needed to go into the exhibition spaces. Slipping away to change, Keith listened to Hunk speak to Lance as he rid himself of his catering trappings.

“Remember, one of these in every room.” Hunk’s instructions were always simple and clear. He was probably handing over the bugs for Lance to plant throughout the exhibition galleries. Good, Pidge would soon have audio in at least some of the building. One more thing crossed off the list.

Lance had not yet engaged Zarkon in conversation; however, his mic was picking up faint snippets of unintelligible dialogue with the white-haired companion. Keith returned to the gala, intending to check it out himself, but first taking the proffered red from Hunk with faux disinterest. He looked around at the guests and the exhibition space. As far as he had been able to tell, everyone was expected to enter and exit through the front door only. There was also the service door to the galley and the two emergency exits at the back of Galleries 3 and 13 that he’d seen on the map. The front desk reception sat at the far end of the lobby across from the entrance, and hallways branched off from there, but they were marked off-limits with simple brass and velvet stanchions, guarded by security.

Keith had made a point of watching the guards when he’d made his rounds earlier. They were on a twelve-minute rotation, which sort of made sense. It kept them alert but was still an hourly routine.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do; this was not a good role for him. He hoped he could just blend in, listen, and not have to speak to anyone-

“Hey, Keith?” Pidge asked, interrupting his introspection and not waiting for a response. “Go check on Lance. He’s been sitting in Gallery 12, for a while now.”

“On it,” he muttered into his glass, but something else suddenly caught his attention. He set his wine down on the nearest table and squinted to get a better look at the figure across the room. This one security goon up at the entrance had not left his original post all evening. Something about him was all too familiar. It was as if-

The guard turned suddenly and their eyes locked.

_Shiro._

No doubt. No second-guessing. No double take.

All at once, everything he knew or thought he knew was called into doubt. What was he doing? Why was he here? There were too many questions, and he needed to think. He slipped around the entrance to the adjacent gallery, making his way swiftly from room to room until he was alone. His heart skipped, palpitations fluttering in his chest as his breath came fast and anxious through his teeth. Keith pressed his back against the China red wall inhaling deeply. He’d broken a cold sweat.

He shivered.

Bright white LEDs illuminated cases containing artifacts from the Middle East and the western orient. Ornately decorated jewel-encrusted daggers in the central exhibit case immediately caught his attention, and he went over to it to distract his reeling mind, but it did nothing. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead against the Plexiglas vitrine.

Keith tried to calm down; he wanted to go back. To Shiro, and that _was_ definitely Shiro. But the matter remained, why, if Shiro was alive and had made it out, why then wouldn’t he have come home? And what was he doing working security for Zarkon? There were too many things Keith needed to know even to begin to make sense of what he was feeling. Right at the forefront were shock and betrayal, though he just could not believe that Shiro would ever knowingly betray him. At least not without a very good reason.

“Keith? What are you doing?” he vaguely heard Pidge address him through the feed. He didn’t want to listen.

He tapped his mic. “Pidge? I-I…” he stuttered.

“Keith?” she asked again.

He couldn’t do this right now. He ripped the device off and let it hang over his lapel, strands of hair yanked out with the tape.

“Keith.” An all too familiar voice called his name.

He snapped open his eyes, turning abruptly.

_Fuck._ He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the approaching footfalls. A ragged scar cut across the bridge of Shiro’s nose and his hair frosted prematurely gray with a streak of pure white from the center of his hairline, styled back and gelled into place. Keith met the hard gaze staring down at him.

_Calm yourself._

“I knew it was you the moment I saw you; when you came through the staff door from the kitchen.” Shiro leaned toward him, palm resting against a display case, casually crossing one ankle over the other.

He swallowed down the lump caught in his throat and blinked back the well of tears he was desperate to contain.

_We’re connected. Through all of space and time. Always. I would know you, find you._

He couldn’t read Shiro’s expression, making it hard to gauge the situation, and he wished he were dead inside. Even empty would be better than this. He was ready to throw himself at this man before him, bury his face in that sculpted chest, and engage in the cathartic release of convulsive, wracking sobs.

_Get a grip._

Shiro nodded, leaning farther in, close enough so that if he turned his head, their cheeks would touch. He felt the warm breath on his neck and trembled as goosebumps prickled over his skin. Keith bit his tongue.

Shiro brushed Keith’s bangs off his forehead and ran his right gloved hand through the thick dark hair, tucking it behind Keith’s ear and letting his fingertips trail along the conch of his ear to the underside of his jaw, lifting his chin ever so slightly.

Something about the touch felt off, yet Keith tilted his head into the caress, sucking in his breath, exhaling in ragged gasps. He licked his chapped lips. Shiro’s face was so very close, eyes searching. He could only hope the last six months of his life had been nothing but a bad dream. He just wanted to feel complete again, when everything was still a vast emptiness.

With lowered eyes, Shiro pressed his lips to Keith’s, soft crush and tongues running along each other’s teeth, hips together, one steady hand cradled the back of his head. He inhaled the familiar strong scent of musk and black pepper. He craved it and immediately reached to loosen Shiro’s tie.

If he remembered his dreams, he often found himself floating through the void of space. No sealed suit, just himself. Most of the time, he chose to inhale. The low pressure would tear his lungs apart in quick and certain death. Sometimes he would hold his breath, and at exactly thirteen seconds, he would stop counting. Never did he wait to be rescued, but he wondered if he did, would someone come for him? Would his mind make that connection? Was it worth the risk (did it matter)? He had gotten it in his head that somewhere around twenty-seven seconds he might wake up again.

_In a 1965 incident at the Johnson Space Center, a technician lost consciousness in a vacuum chamber when his space suit was accidentally depressurized. When his suit was re-pressurized, he regained consciousness, exactly twenty-seven seconds from the time he stepped into the chamber._

_Thirteen seconds to loss of consciousness. Fourteen more seconds to wake up. Twenty-seven seconds._

_Simple math._

He closed his eyes again, giving up on the tie to smooth back Shiro’s hair, rub his palms over the tight fade of his undercut.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Suddenly, Shiro pulled his face away. “I’ve got you.” Fingers wrapped around Keith’s neck, clamping down on his windpipe and his eyes flew open, wide and white. He clawed at the gloved hand, but his nails bent and scraped as if scratching at metal.

_One…_ His brain automatically started the count.

Shiro’s other hand raked through his hair, gripping close to the scalp, pulling back, and forcing him to look up. He couldn’t breathe. The hold around his neck clamped his jaw shut tight as Shiro kissed him again.

_Three..._

Keith still wanted it.

He was collected somewhere in the tapestry of Shiro’s life. Inside and out, all his secrets woven into the threads and fibers, fragments of inconsequence knotted into tassels at either end. He’d been there too long; he was a part of it by design. He stared straight ahead into Shiro’s eyes, careful not to blink, not to telegraph his movements. Careful not to panic.

He tried to relax and felt the grasp lessen ever so slightly, letting him suck in some air before it tightened again.

“Who do you think you are, coming in here like this? What did she send you for?” Shiro waited, loosening his hold just enough to let Keith speak. There it was, an almost imperceptible shift in Shiro’s eyes, the tiniest crack in this fabricated facade that gave Keith hope, yet he still knew nothing. What the hell was going on?

He was starting to put it together. Shiro thought he’d been abandoned, but Keith knew he hadn’t been paying attention to the feed. Had he heard it at all? Pidge hadn’t known where he was, and when she had explicitly told him to get out of there, he hadn’t listened.

_Nine..._

He felt the squeeze again, unable to force air out of his lungs.

“Keith?”

Shiro permitted him another sip of air. He had forgotten the question and instead blurted out only what he wanted to say. “I thought you were _dead_!” he could barely raise his voice above a whisper, yet if he had been able, he would have yelled, irrational fury biting into him. “I went to your memorial service. I watched your parents _cry_! Even your dad. He was there, Shiro. Your father was there! Do they know? Why didn’t you come home? Why did you let me think-” The hold tightened again. He was trapped. He had to get out.

“Why did you leave me there?”

The strangled entreaty tore at Keith’s heart, and yet at the same time, self-preservation kicked in.

_Reset._

He had been so careful to keep his hands and legs where Shiro could see them. Now was his opportunity. He jerked his knee up, right into Shiro’s groin. Obviously, he was wearing protection, but the involuntary reflex gave Keith just long enough to twist himself free of the iron grip that held him.

He coughed and retched, sputtering phlegm and vomit onto the floor as he fell, catching himself with his hands and forcing his body up again, struggling to maintain his footing. “I didn’t! I TRIED!” He did not dare take his eyes off Shiro as he panted, bracing his hands and forearms on his thighs for support. He blinked, and a single tear leaked out, sliding down his face, along his jaw, and splattering unceremoniously onto his tie.

_One..._

Shiro’s jaw clenched. “I trusted you.”

“I FUCKING TRIED! Why aren’t you listening to me?” Keith was screaming now; he wasn’t thinking right. He had to stop. He shut his mouth tight and chewed the inside of his cheek, sucking it between his molars, determined to say nothing more until he was able to control himself.

_Four..._

Shiro searched his eyes, a cruel dark stare into the windows of his soul. “I thought you loved me.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” He barked the words and wiped the spittle from his mouth with his sleeve. _Days and nights of endless waking nightmares, dragging myself along because the other half was gone._

Through that nearly impenetrable composure, Keith thought he saw it again, another fissure, something unspoken. Shiro blinked, and it was gone.

“I don’t have to take this crap from you. Just get out.” Shiro tugged the glove off his right hand, tossing it aside. Keith wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a threat or if he was just ridding himself of an annoyance.

At least Keith now had a better look at what he was certain was some kind of prosthetic. _What happened to you?_

“Shiro?” he murmured, a desperate plea.

Shiro said nothing, advancing toward him with slow, measured feline grace, tall and powerful, eclipsing the white gallery lighting with his form, face in shadow.

_Nine, ten..._

Coughing once more, Keith shifted his balance and readied his stance. He spat to clear his mouth and then drew in a long breath. His fists balled tight, and he forced them loose again.

“I don’t think you understand, Keith,” Shiro spoke. “I didn’t come back because I never wanted to see _you_ again.”

“Liar.”

“No.” Shiro shook his head sadly.

Keith had been looking into the light too long and squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment to clear the blood vessels from his vision. He knew he had heard that correctly and he didn’t know whether to believe it or not. He found himself no longer caring about why he was here or the purpose of this job. The mission didn’t matter anymore.

His body turned in one fluid motion, from his heels to his toes, through his legs, back, rotating out through his shoulders, almost before he realized it, connecting arm, wrist, and fist with near-perfect form. The force of the blow sent Shiro staggering backward.

_Thirteen. Loss of consciousness._

Shock flickered briefly over Shiro’s face before it blanked out and he caught his breath.

Keith had done it. He had a real fight on his hands now.

_Fourteen…_

He ducked the fist aimed at his face and felt his return connect with Shiro’s cheekbone. He moved backward, the floor slick with bile under his feet, and he slipped and crashed into one of the display cases. _Dammit, Lance and these stupid leather-soled boots!_ Shiro was coming toward him, driving him. Keith clutched at the edge of a display case and pulled himself up. He stepped aside as Shiro swung. The metal fist smashed into the Plexiglas with a sharp crack as the side fractured into a web of shards echoing in the small room. The trinkets inside fell from their perches and scattered as if trying to hide.

“If you never wanted to see me again, you should have moved to a different city.” Keith snarled, locked onto Shiro’s other arm, using what leverage he could to spin him around and shove him forward. He stumbled but regained his balance before Keith could pin him down.

_Seventeen, eighteen..._

“And why,” Keith continued, slowing his breathing to save energy, “are you trying to break your daddy’s toys?”

“Your fault for being here,” Shiro lashed out, his prosthetic hand wrapping around Keith’s wrist, pulling him in close and then sending him careening into the row of exhibition cases along the opposite wall. “And he’s not my daddy.”

Touchy for a defector.

Keith hit with a solid impact, feeling bruises bloom along the length of his body, even as he immediatelymoved to avoid Shiro’s follow-through.

_Twenty-one..._

Shiro’s hand tangled in his shirt, yanking him up from the wreckage, providing Keith the perfect opportunity to strike. He felt the burst as Shiro’s lip split beneath his knuckles. Keith twisted his head to avoid the return blow, taking it in the jaw, jerking back as he clenched his mouth shut, a shock of excruciating pain shooting up through his temple.

His vision blurred, his body sagged, dead weight pulling Shiro along as they connected with each other and the floor. Keith’s head knocked against the floorboards, a stern enough wake-up call for him to rally. Bucking and jabbing a sharp knee into Shiro’s side, he tried to roll them over, but Shiro had already grabbed his wrist and pinned it down. Keith shifted and felt the grip tighten. He could hear the popping of his joints as Shiro squeezed. He needed to get free. “You’re hurting me,” he gasped through gritted teeth.

It was stupid, of course. That was the point of this brawl, wasn’t it?

Shiro either hadn’t heard him or was ignoring him completely. The man had hardly broken a sweat, and here he was a panting, struggling mess. Where was his stamina? Had he lost that much in just half a year?

He twisted, curling until he could work up the leg of his pants and graze the fingers of his free hand against the hilt of his dagger. _Smooth as fuck._ It slid out, and he slashed out, across Shiro’s bicep, towards the prosthetic hand. Metal rang against metal, the blade deflected. No spurt of blood, no cry of pain.

_Twenty-four, twenty-five..._

Shiro pulled back, crouched on his haunches over Keith, inviting him to try again.

Over and over he struck, enraged and unable to stop, all the way up the arm, shredding Shiro’s dinner jacket and shirt sleeve before his arm was seized, completely pinning him down. The smooth, supple pads of the prosthetic fingertips dug into his tendons and squeezed, cartilage cracking. From the corner of his eye, he could see the hand begin to glow a dim purple, and he could feel a warmth prickling around his wrist. He dared not take his eyes off of Shiro’s face.

The dagger clattered to the ground.

_Twenty-six, twenty-seven._

He lay there, spread-eagle on his back beneath Shiro, pressed down into the cold hardwood. His one wrist was starting to burn as the glow intensified, the other arm wrenched down and trapped under Shiro’s knee. He forced himself to stillness. Stillness as Shiro landed another blow to his face. Stillness as he felt the warm gush of blood pour from his nose. Another as his teeth cut into his lip. He swallowed down the taste of salt and iron in his mouth. Stillness as he thought about how much he wanted to kiss that face above him, kiss the scar and the new bruises, all of it far too real now. Stillness as his gut heaved with the wracking sobs he had been holding back, and there was no way to hide it.

“Keith…” Shiro’s voice cracked, distress in his tone, the light around his hand now gone, but he did not let go.

“I did everything,” His voice was thick with the tears he had failed to suppress, “and it wasn’t enough. _I_ wasn’t enough.”

“Keith, I-” Shiro convulsed suddenly, groaning in pain. With a pop and a zap, the lingering hum of electricity and the smell of charred flesh filled the air. His hand went limp.

“Shiro? SHIRO!” Keith hiccupped and sniffled back snot, swallowing as he scrambled out from beneath even as Shiro’s body continued to spasm. He was out cold.

_Thirty-five. Are you dead yet?_

_No._

_The truth is, it might take a minute or two, probably less than three, for the organs in your body to shut down from lack of oxygen. You are a lot more resilient than you give yourself credit for._

Standing above them was Lance, holding a Taser out in front of himself with both hands. “Come on Keith. We have to get out of here.”

“I can’t just… He was saying something. I-” Keith replayed the scene in his mind, “When did you learn to aim?”

“I didn’t.” Lance roughly grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Look, he made his choice, and we have to go. Now.”

Keith jerked free, then nodded. Hands shaking, he wiped his arm across his face smearing blood across the sleeve of his jacket. Lance retrieved his dagger from where it lay now beside Shiro’s head and handed it to him, but he fumbled, fingers barely working, and it dropped to the floor.

Lance picked it up again, this time rucking up Keith’s pant leg and guiding the knife back into its sheath. He pulled the fabric back down and patted his calf.

“Keith?”

Keith snapped his attention back to Lance with a turn of his head. He’d been listening to approaching footfalls, running and getting louder.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Together they headed toward the emergency exit at the back of the gallery.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/kittymaru/36332015486/in/dateposted-public/)

 

###  **vi.**

Keith sat on the kitchen countertop beside the sink, eyes glazing over as he stared at the wall clock. His watch had somehow come through unscathed, but Hunk removed it to check the blistering burn on his wrist. He followed each long tick of the second hand as it traveled a full 360 degrees over and over again, counting. He hadn’t moved the entire time he’d been there, hadn’t acknowledged anyone or anything since Lance had led him by the elbow back through the door of the condo, coaxed him out of his dinner jacket, ruined tie, and stained dress shirt, then shucked him of his perspiration-soaked undershirt. His feet hung free, boot heels knocking against the cabinet with each breath.

Pidge curled up on the sofa, claiming nausea from the scent of blood, one foot visible sticking out over the armrest. Keith was covered in it, most of it his own, having come from his nose, which Lance packed with gauze after Hunk set it. Someone had bound his hair back, probably Hunk, who wiped the remaining smears and smudges off his skin. He paid little attention to the warm, damp washcloth; he could hardly feel the gentle pats over his swollen lip, expertly sutured by Lance.

Was it worth the blood, toil, tears, and sweat?

In the grand scheme of existence, he was nothing. To the vastness of space, he meant nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. He couldn’t even rationalize what he felt now as a cosmic joke; the universe didn’t play pranks on such little specks of star-stuff. He wasn’t worth the effort.

So why, if he was so unimportant, did he have the capacity for so much hurt?

And so much rage.

Right now, nothing could begin to touch the raw, infuriating agony of that one simple phrase.

_I never wanted to see you again._

Lance finished bandaging the large burn on his wrist and lightly squeezed his hand. “Cariño.” He pressed his lips against Keith’s fingers.

He didn’t have it in him to tell Lance to go away. Lance who wore the world like a mantle and strutted about in it, but in reality was only trying to keep himself afloat, treading just below the surface.

Hunk enveloped him in a hug, the air escaping his lungs with a soft puff. He leaned into the embrace, imagining it as the sort of hug a parent would give, full of warm comfort; a place to share confidences and know that they were safe.

“I am so, so sorry.” Hunk smoothed his hair and held him close.

He would have cried again if he’d had any tears left to give.

A day later, he found himself unable to chew his food. Never mind the fact that half his teeth were loose, Keith could barely open his mouth.

It took all three of them to set Keith’s dislocated jaw, Hunk sitting directly on his ribcage, knees into his shoulders, using his mass to keep him still with Lance and Pidge at his legs. He flinched, jerking his head away as Hunk pressed gently into the joint with firm hands that expertly snapped it back into place. A guttural moan, loud and low escaped with his breath as he thrashed and convulsed, or tried to. It was the first outward sign of discomfort he allowed himself to concede.

Hunk said he suspected Keith’s jaw hadn’t been set right since Lance had knocked him out back however many months ago that was. Hunk also said that if Keith were able to exercise some basic self-control, he probably wouldn’t get himself into these situations quite so often.

“These situations” being the ones where Hunk and Lance had to patch him up again. “Often” being just about every time they did a job.

That didn’t quite seem fair though. This time it had been because of Shiro. The last _two_ times it had been because of Shiro.

He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror yet, but he had a feeling it wasn’t pretty. Just by touch alone, he could tell his face was swollen. He looked down his torso, the bruises already turning from dusty mauve to black. He couldn’t feel the burn on his wrist. That was probably a bad thing.

He spent the better part of the day feeling sorry for himself before he grew tired of sulking.

Lance hooked him up with homemade cold packs and injected him with something that was supposed to help the pain. He didn’t ask what it was. He did not want to know.

Chill as shit he’d been in ages; he crossed into the event horizon. Or maybe he was the event horizon, the singularity at his core the center of this supermassive black hole. Everything he let take hold in his heart was lost, like tears in rain.


	2. Collide or Collapse?

###  **i.**

The rumble and pop of a motorcycle slowing its approach to the front entrance of Galran Technologies gave Shiro pause. Both familiar and unmistakable, he knew the sound like the back of his hand, and like the back of his hand, he had taken it for granted. Would he ever learn? How had he become so complacent, so oblivious to everything shifting and changing around him? He didn’t even want to be here, yet here he was, stuck with no place else to go.

He had never suspected he might be played by the person he cared for most. _Had cared for._ He reminded himself to use the past tense. Though even now, it didn’t quite make sense. Keith buried his deeper feelings beneath an impulsive veneer. Anything that bubbled up to the surface was public domain, yet at the same time everything else remained tucked away behind a tight firewall, which sometimes made getting a read on him difficult. Shiro was only able to recall a handful of times Keith had let his guard slip, moments when they had bared their souls, curled up together under the pall of nightfall and behind a locked door, divulging their hopes and dreams, fears and insecurities. Their reunion at the gala, Shiro realized, was the first time he had ever seen Keith cry.

_Serves him right._

Staring at his prosthetic hand, Shiro flexed the fingers, spreading them as far as he could, listening to the soft whirr of the joints as they moved. Beside his other hand, there was only a slight variation in size and shape, an almost mirrored silhouette made especially for him. He knew he couldn’t ask for better; nothing better existed. He rubbed the top of his bicep where the metal edge was fused to his flesh, the muscle tight and sore. Sometimes he felt a burning itch deep within the tissue, attributed to the transmission of signals from his brain to the wires and electrodes attached where his arm had been amputated. He tried to remember how it had all played out, but it was like walking through the sludge of an oil slick, lost to a miasma of haze and shadow.

What he knew beyond a doubt was that when he had opened his eyes again, the one person he had expected to see hadn’t been there.

The engine cut. Shiro rose to his feet and made his way back toward the entrance to get a look through the tinted windows of the front lobby. What was he even doing? He knew he should just go back to his post; if it hadn’t done so already, the job was mind-numbing and repetitive enough to make his brain atrophy.

There it was: the cherry red 1941 Indian 741B, tagged “RSNGSUN,” just as he had expected, parked right outside the door, twice rebuilt and modded to race with a lacquered brass star on the gas tank. As for the rider, he would have recognized him anywhere.

Keith booted down the kickstand and swung his leg over the back of the bike with ease, his soles connecting with the asphalt. Curiosity held Shiro in thrall, captivated by the raw, fluid grace of this person over whom he had amassed so much psychological baggage. He wished he could rid himself of it, but nothing was that simple.

How long had it been since the first time they’d crossed paths? At least eight years. They had been a binary pulsar spiraling to its imminent collision. Slowly at first, then faster as the two stars came together, the balance of mortality suspended in that moment before their union.

Sliding his helmet off, Keith hung it on the handlebar before tossing his key to the bellboy, who missed the catch and dropped it. After a moment of exasperated displeasure, he turned and flung the double doors open wide before him, striding through as Shiro ducked around behind the gallery entrance to avoid being seen.

Shiro continued to observe in the reflection off the case in the center of the room.

Keith shook out his hair and combed his fingers through, gathering and securing it in a messy ponytail. Shiro had to admit he had always liked Keith’s hair long. Even sweaty, greasy, and untamed, it suited him. Keith hadn’t even tried to make himself up for this visit. He had arrived in his usual unkempt form, from the ratty t-shirt that clung to his slender frame beneath the decades-old leather jacket, to the plaid button down tied at his waist over pants of questionable decency, and boots with the laces broken and knotted.

He stormed past the gallery entrance, then stopped abruptly, taking a step back and looking in, fixing on the case in the center, expression indecipherable.

He wondered if the reflection had shown Keith the swollen blue-yellow halo around his eye or the stitches in his lip. Not that Keith looked particularly great either, mouth slightly puffy, nose a faded purple-blue and packed with gauze, dressing around his left wrist and hand stained with yellow and brown tidelines from the weeping wound.

He, Shiro, had caused that.

Shiro slipped away from line of sight, but not before glimpsing Keith’s face in the Plexi, eyes searching as if looking for him. He held his breath and cursed his carelessness.

Once he might have been lost in those eyes; Shiro thought he could see all the paths to infinity, tiny stars in sparkling catchlights. Keith could have fallen from space, and he wouldn’t have questioned it.

As far as Shiro was concerned, Keith had.

He had found Keith in the rain, a crumpled body on the side of the road, his motorcycle twisted around him like a broken shell. A semi had run a red light and clipped him in the dark.He’d done what he could - called 911, stayed with him until the paramedics had arrived, sent him care packages while in the hospital. Shiro could imagine dying in a hospital. Sterile. Alone. Terrifying.

Was Keith thinking about the way they had come together and come apart again just barely over a week ago? While Keith had been the one to throw the first punch, Shiro could hardly pretend he hadn’t provoked him.

Keith didn’t have the right to be angry. It was all his fault. Whatever decision he had made, he had made it for the both of them.

_When did you become so quick to relinquish your agency?_

Theirs had never been a simple dichotomy. He should know by now to be careful with fire. There was still so much about emotional arson he had left to learn.

And then he asked himself, why was Keith even here? 

 

###  **ii.**

Pidge sat crouched in the chair, face illuminated by the glow of her three monitors, the tip of her nose nearly touching the central screen. Gnawing on the cap of her pen, she hunched over her keyboard, eyes riveted to the scene playing out before her.

Hunk rapped on the open door with his knuckles and tossed two packaged screen wipes onto her desk. “Sit any closer, and you’ll leave grease spots.”

She pushed herself back away from the desk with her fingertips, a circle of fog from her breath remaining in evidence on the LCD, chair rolling into the wall behind. Leaning to one side, she jammed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and looked at him, pen still dangling between her lips. Popping it out, she gestured toward the image. “I wonder what they’re talking about?”

Hunk squatted in front of the desk, eyes widening as they darted from the screen to Pidge and back again to the screen. “So that’s where he went.”

“Apparently so.”

Keith and Zarkon were front and center before them, in a blatant appraisal of something on the wall. They stood in what Pidge could only assume was Zarkon’s office. Keith held his dagger out by the tip of the blade, up to whatever it was just out of the camera’s view.

“Why is he doing that?” Hunk glanced over at Pidge.

“Does anyone know why Keith does anything? You’re asking the wrong person.”

They watched Zarkon swing his arms out as if presenting the thing in front of them.

“‘Ah! But this is nothing compared to the _magnificent_ beauty of your dagger!’” They both turned abruptly, Lance’s false baritone jarring them to attention. Pidge slid out of her chair, landing hard on the wood floor. She grunted. Neither had heard him approach.

Lance lounged against the doorframe, one hand resting idly on his hip. “Pretty good right?”

Pidge picked herself off the ground and sat back in her chair, folding her knees up onto the seat. “Sounds like a bad pick-up line to me,” she retorted.

They all watched Zarkon extend his hand, clearly asking for the blade. Keith returned it to the sheath at his belt instead.

Hunk raised an eyebrow as he stood and stared Lance dead in the eyes. “We’re talking about Keith. Complimenting that boy’s dagger will take you places you didn’t know you wanted to go.”

Pidge thought she could see a pink flush glow across Lance’s cheeks. The corner of her mouth turned up in amusement. Back on the screen, Zarkon had clapped his hand on Keith’s back, jolting him forward. The president of Galran Technologies kept his palm there just at the base of Keith’s neck, rubbing his large thumb over the peaks of each vertebra.

Zarkon made Keith seem even smaller than he was. Pidge shivered. The hair on her arms with goosebumps. It was like scruffing a kitten, and she thought that Zarkon looked the part of a farmer, about to break the newborn’s spine and drown it in the river.

_He probably doesn’t realize he’s got a full-grown cat on his hands._

“You haven’t heard anything from him?” Lance asked.

Hunk shook his head.

“I told you,” Pidge grabbed her phone off her desk and hit the home button, “about two hours ago that I would let you know if or when I did.”

Lance had been like this for the past four days. They had waited almost a week before reporting back to Allura after the gala. Keith had been non-functional for much of it. Sometimes, if someone were watching him, he’d eat, but most of the time he’d sleep, or pretend to, and he certainly didn’t talk. About anything.

Pidge recognized it as grief, parceled out, packaged up, and tucked away. They’d all been through this before. She felt the pang of frustrated anger more than anything else. Shiro had been her friend; he had been a friend to all of them and more than that to Keith. Those two had known each other since before their employment here, and while she didn’t know much about their history, the bond between them had been strong. She had thought they were lovers before they actually were. Losing that was heartbreaking. Even without having ever experienced it herself, she could empathize. To watch Keith going through these motions a second time hurt her in ways she didn’t know she could hurt.

When they had finally met to turn in their report, it had almost immediately gone south. Pidge had handed the packet over, and then they had waited several very long minutes while Allura Alforse skimmed the lengthy document.

She had shaken her head with a resounding no and had told them they were wrong. The secret wasn’t Shiro, couldn’t be. It was something else entirely.

The aftermath was seared into Pidge’s memory.

_Keith’s fists clenched tight, nails cutting into the heels of his palms. “You knew.” The words came out just above a whisper._

_Allura leaned back in her chair, elbow propped on the armrest, chin poised on the back of her hand. She nodded._

_“Why?” Despair crescendoed to rage in a single word; a droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He didn’t breathe, his entire body tensed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”_

_“Love is a dangerous game to play. Shiro loved you. He loved you so much he was willing to sacrifice everything. For you. I can’t have that. We,” she gestured to the room, “can’t have that.”_

_“A despot like you doesn’t know shit about love.”_

_“It makes you weak. And a single weak link can break the chain.”_

_“He’s all I had!”_

_“You are compromised.”_

_In an instant, he cleared the desk, landing with his knees on the chair to either side of her lap, hands twisting in the fabric at the neck of her gown. Their faces pressed together as he pulled her toward him._

_“I am not your pawn!” he growled._

_For a long moment, neither moved, and then Allura reached up between them. She clutched his shirt, digging into his chest as she rose to her full height, pulling him up with her before slamming him onto her desk, his skull cracking on the hardwood. She looked down at him, not a single silver hair out of place._

_“Of course you are, Keith.” The timbre of her voice never changed. “You worked hard, and I gave you a promotion.”_

 

Pidge shuddered and scooted her chair back to the desk. There was nothing more to see in Zarkon’s office once Keith had been escorted out by one of the fancier suits working the security detail. She noted the orange glow of the thug’s false eye and his larger-than-life left arm. Despite knowing full well Keith could handle himself, Pidge feared for her friend. Resizing the window, she moved it to the top left corner of the screen.

She moused over to the taskbar to open one of the many minimized windows. The code break was complete, she had finally cracked the encryption on the archives. Good. There were things she wanted to search for.

“I’m going to make lunch. Any requests?” Hunk asked.

Pidge had forgotten she wasn’t alone and turned to him. “Uh… something tasty.”

Hunk smiled. “You won’t be disappointed.” He turned to leave, then called over his shoulder, “C’mon Lance.”

She navigated to her profile folder and grabbed the best pictures of Shiro she could find. Starting with limiting her search by date and then running facial recognition would probably be the easiest way to gain traction fast. That way she would at least be able to get a sense of timeline and activity. She input the data, set the algorithm, and leaned back in her chair. Now she just had to wait. She would have loved to have had corresponding audio files, but those didn’t exist.

Something smelled good. Without thinking, Pidge grabbed the proffered coffee cup with an automatic, “Thanks, Keith.” She blew on it a little and took a large swig, almost immediately spitting it back out into the cup. _Disgusting!_ Sheepishly, she looked over at the person beside her. Lance.

“I’m sorry.” Carefully, she set the cup on her desk. Sometimes she was the proverbial bull, trampling over everything before she was even aware there were things to avoid stepping on.

He shook his head. “S’all good.”

“It’s just, you know. It’s not like a vacation. I don’t even think Keith’s ever taken a vacation. You get used to having someone around and then when that person is no longer there it feels like something is, well, missing.”

_We’re falling apart._

Lance nodded and sat down on the floor beside her chair. It was rare that he had nothing to say.

Pidge thought about Keith as she watched the flickering of the camera feed flash through the search. The first hit counter pinged. She muted the volume.

She really missed Keith’s coffee. He couldn’t cook anything that was remotely edible, yet every morning he made her coffee exactly the way she liked it. She missed the way he’d deposit one small gift for each night of Hanukkah in her room, every year for as long as they’d lived together. He and Hunk were the only ones who could seem to remember she didn’t celebrate Christmas. She knew that given another day, she’d miss curling up on the sofa together to watch _Ancient Aliens_ and gory B-rated horror flicks, or borrowing Lance’s video games and staying up all night in console competitions. She thought about the time they broke the coffee table rocking out with Keith’s stupid Les Paul after waiting for everyone else to leave. She’d miss the lazy afternoons listening to numbers stations and intercepting shortwave communications across the globe for the fun of it. He never told her what she wanted to hear just because she wanted to hear it. She appreciated his sincerity, and even if she rolled her eyes at the way he always bottled himself up, she didn’t do it out of malice. She just wanted him to understand that if he needed her, or even if he did not, she was there. 

 

###  **iii.**

From this vantage, Keith could see the ocean. The colors of evening bled across the cloudless horizon, a wash of hue sweeping ultramarine to golden yellow and bright vermilion around the falling disc of the sun as it began its descent to rest for the day. Brisk wind drew its fingers through the escaped tendrils of Keith’s ponytail as he sat on the ledge outside his window five stories up from the street below. He followed the pavement markings after the cars and trucks with his eyes. Tick, tick, tick over the graying asphalt as they disappeared into the distance.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the glass bottle he’d scrounged from a trash can. So much for quitting. Taking a long drag, he filled his lungs and held it in before slowly expelling the smoke through his nose.

_You’ve come a long way, baby._ He nearly choked on his own inner dialogue.

Somehow, he had managed to convince Zarkon to hire him on and let him stay. It was not the way he had wanted things to turn out, but it was how they had gone. Keith was sorry he hadn’t said goodbye to the team, but he hadn’t felt he could face them. Severing himself from that existence, all the things both good and bad, was his own choice. Nothing was grounded anymore, and he didn’t know who or what he could trust. Certainly not himself. His heart was screaming one thing, while his brain told him another; that made him the most unreliable cog in the whole machine.

This was what he had to do. He had to sort this out, to know. Shiro was _here_ , and confrontation was about proximity.

He watched the water ignite at the edge of the world, the flames shimmering in haze and skirting the crests of the waves before the final flash of emerald sank below the edge of the world. Darkness crept in from behind as if riding the wind and bringing with it the dark gray clouds of an impending storm. He could smell it in the air as the crisp chill moved in, an appropriate end to the day.

Keith snuffed the cherry of his smoke out on the side of the building and dropped the butt into the bottle before climbing back into his room and shutting the window.

He viewed it as an experiment, this whole rolling up and strutting in, pretending he had a meeting with Zarkon. The prize he’d set his sights on had been an impromptu interview, and he had arrived willing to fight for it. He’d done his homework, and he thought he had a fairly solid understanding of what amused the so-called emperor, of how to fill that stereotype to get his foot in the door. Zarkon wanted to be a parent to his team, molding them to his ideal, but he liked the ones best who pushed back and argued, who approached him with a rebellious defiance that he could soften and tame. Keith had postured himself for the chat in Zarkon’s office, with cutting glares, and an air of recalcitrant boredom.

The final part of his interview had been a round of sparring with the head of the security division. Keith had lain Sendak, with his beefy metal arm and glowing orange eye, flat on his back in exactly seventeen seconds, pinned down with a dagger to his throat. A single bead of red rolled along the sharpened edge and Keith had licked it off before it hit the wrapped guard, tongue gliding along the flat of the blade, taunting seduction in the loll of his head, all of it part of the ruse. What exactly had Sendak seen looking at him? Someone small? Or fragile? He’d had the element of surprise on his side.

_Force equals mass times acceleration._

The faster he was, the stronger he was; the more precise he was, the more effective he was. If anyone had wanted to see a real match, they should have put him up against Shiro, but Zarkon had probably watched that fight already. It hadn’t gone particularly well anyway, although to be fair, he had been emotionally compromised. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Keith had been offered a position. It was a job, and a stab in all the right places at all the right people. He had read the contract carefully before scrawling his signature in bold red ink at the bottom of the page. Welcome to Galran Technologies.

The bellboy, Thace, whom he had learned was not really a bellboy, had guided him through the grand tour. Nearly the entire campus had been shown to him, from the inner bowels of the building systems in the basement to the laboratories on the main floors and the offices above. The dormitory where he now lived was a separate building altogether. Keith had access to most of these spaces, including the employee lounges, recreational facilities, and dining areas. There was even a covered garage with a numbered parking space for his bike. In two days, he’d have his shift assignment. They’d given him a handbook and issued his uniforms.

The uniforms needed to see a tailor.

_“The first rule of dressing well is making sure your clothes fit well.”_ The influence of Lance McClain was apparently affecting his sensibilities. He wondered what Lance was up to.

Right at this moment? Probably lying on the unmade bed in the room next to Hunk’s.

He thought about all the mornings and nights they had spent together, he and Lance. There was a _them_ , even if Keith didn’t like to admit it. He ruminated over their postcoital ritual, how he’d always left when Lance would look at him, solemn and glassy-eyed in the afterglow. It seemed almost too cruel, yet at the same time, the thought of staying had felt dishonest. At least Hunk was now free to buy the new throw pillows he’d been coveting after months of quietly complaining that there was no reason to spare the expense if Keith would just continue to sleep on them with his perpetually oily bedhead.

_Get pillowcases._

It was one of those things about living with others that straddled the line of an all-out argument, but neither of them was going to fight over Lance. And this _was_ about Lance, not over the throw pillows on the sofa or even how often Keith washed his hair.

_“What am I supposed to do?”_

_Hunk gripped his shoulder. “Comfort him.”_

_“I told him upfront what to expect from me.”_

_“Yes, but what did you think was going to happen? You’re the one who initiated this mess, so you need to fix it.”_

_“He instigated it, not me.”_

 

It had been as simple as, “Shut up!” followed by, “Make me.” If grabbing Lance by the balls and kissing him - back up against the wall, free hand cupping the back of his head, fingers laced through short brunette hair, mouths suctioned together - hadn’t been interpreted as an invitation, Keith would have punched him next. There might have been a lesson in all of that, about using sexual tension to make a point. He took no heed. Lance knew how to needle and rib and push all of the buttons; Keith couldn’t let a challenge alone. There was an inherent instability in the way they merged together, too much flux and they coalesced as smoldering embers and steam.

Keith had laid down the rules before it had gone any further.

Pidge didn’t seem to care, and while Hunk did not encourage it, he said very little.

There was a convenience in the way his departure had played out; it simplified things. In one respect, Keith was glad. He no longer had to deal with the threat of impending emotional fallout. Despite this, he was going to miss his exploits with the long-limbed grifter. He did miss them. Right now. Even at a purely base and recreational level. He knew Lance did too.

After having received twenty texts from Lance within the span of precisely two minutes and thirty-three seconds, he had turned his phone off. He found himself wondering what it was Lance found so compelling about him. It could have been something as basic as consistency.

Or loneliness.

_Stop projecting._

What few belongings Keith had brought were scattered across the bedspread. When he’d decided to leave, he had only grabbed what he knew he could reasonably cram into a duffel bag and the saddlebags on his bike. That meant his laptop, some clothes, whatever he could stash in his dopp kit after the necessary toothbrush and razor, and a plastic red lion with a frayed gold ribbon knotted around its neck. He picked up the toy and placed it on the window sill. It was one of the few things he owned that could not be replaced. That lion had seen him through some of the best and worst parts of his adult life, much like the person who had given it to him.

Keith sprawled across the bed. This was going to be interesting.

 

###  **iv.**

Clicking the end of the retractable pen twice on her desk, Pidge spun it over her fingers and clicked it again, repeating this several times before she stopped it mid-twirl and tapped it absently upon her notebook while her heel bounced against the floor. Eyes flickering over to the pad, Pidge set down the tip of the pen and wrote in a furious scrawl across the lined paper letting her gaze shift back up to the screen. She hit the spacebar with her other hand to pause the video.

Shiro had been spending a lot of time in Gallery 12. What was in Gallery 12? She had set up files for each of the galleries so she could keep herself organized by contents. She scrolled through the list, and when she was almost at the bottom, she noticed something she had completely forgotten.

“Lance?” She yelled from within her room, hoping he would hear her.

He had. “News?” he asked, calling back.

“No. Come here.” Pidge sighed. He was still asking several times a day, and had probably been blowing up Keith’s phone with texts and repeated calls, if he hadn’t already been blocked, and providing Keith had charged his phone battery lately.

After several long moments, Lance shuffled into her room. He had apparently discovered Keith’s collection of band shirts in various states of degradation. The current one, stretching across his pecs and wrinkling in his armpits, happened to be an actual vintage _Ziggy Stardust ‘72 Tour_ shirt. Pidge only knew this because it had been her Christmas gift to Keith two years ago. Starman for the starchild.

She was almost positive that if he knew Lance was wearing it, he’d show up at the door, or possibly a window, within five minutes to reclaim it.

Lance scratched his head, waiting.

Pidge unfolded the gallery pamphlet she had filched from Keith’s pants pocket in the aftermath of that fiasco. “‘ _Treasures Apposite an Empire: An Intimate Look at the Collection of Daibazaal Zarkon,_ ’” she read aloud, carefully enunciating each word. Pidge lifted the bridge of her glasses and rubbed her nose, yawning. “Do you remember what you were looking at in Gallery 12 during the opening last week?” She smoothed out the brochure map and slid it across the desk toward Lance, jabbing her finger at the location.

He blinked once and stepped over to peer at it with ever-polished grace, the long, elegant lines of his lean form a sharp contrast to his disheveled appearance. “I don’t know what galleries I was in. I wandered through a bunch of them.”

Pidge clicked the video clip. It loaded up and began to play. “This one.”

The screen showed Lance from above, seated on a bench in the center of a room, staring at the case in front of him. Oddly, or perhaps because someone was cutting corners with the security budgeting, the contents of the case were not visible in the camera. From inside the security office at Galran Tech, Pidge had even tried adjusting the camera angle, now swiveling in the recorded video clip to attempt a better view.

Curling his fingers into his palm, Lance held his fist up to his pursed lips and gnawed on a knuckle, thinking. “That was right before I heard Shiro in the next room over…” He watched himself turn abruptly toward something near the entrance and look around the doorframe before ducking inside. Pidge paused the show.

His hand fell limp to his side, and he leaned back, rocking on his heels. “It was the lions.”

“Lions?”

“Yeah. Four jeweled lions. Kind of, uh, you know, like the black one sitting on the mantel in Allura’s office. Only these lions don’t have wings, and they’re different colors.”

“That’s it? Lion figurines?” What could be so special about lion figurines? “Wait. Allura has one?”

Lance nodded. “It’s about the size of my fist. The ones Zarkon has are just a tad smaller. The placard said they were ruby, citrine, sapphire, and emerald. Origin unknown.”

“Dated?”

Lance shrugged.

“Huh.” She considered what he’d told her. “I can’t figure out why I couldn’t rotate the camera over to them. It doesn’t make any sense. I wish I could try again remotely...” She could get the video from all of the cameras no problem, but she did not have control over any movement from outside the security office.

“I promise they’re right there.” He pointed, leaving a fingerprint dead center on the LCD. Resting his elbows on the desk, Lance continued, “It’s not like he’s hiding them or anything. They’re out in plain sight.”

Pidge nodded slowly. “Is there anything else there, or just the lions?”

“Just the lions,” came the confident reply.

“You know, Shiro sits on that bench every day and looks at the contents of that case. Is it safe to assume he is also looking at the lions?”

“You bet. Unless he’s studying the minutiae of case design and exhibition layout.”

“Hold that thought a moment.” An idea occurred to her, and she quickly patched herself into the Altean Industries Headquarters surveillance system. It always took a few seconds to connect. She stretched her arms, rotating her wrists first, then each leg, popping the joints in her knees and ankles, stiff from sitting too long. Once she was in, she navigated her way through the camera feeds until she found the one for the penthouse office on the top floor.

Unsurprisingly, the room was empty. Pidge pulled her bangs up off her forehead and held her hair back, sliding her glasses up onto her head like a hairband. Using her toes to push and wheel her chair over to the desktop, she shifted her face even closer to the screen. Typing forcefully on the keyboard, ctrl + over and over again, she zoomed in until she had the black onyx lion front and center on the monitor. Several clicks and keystrokes later and the image was saved on her hard drive.

“You know,” Lance began, “I think they might be part of the same set.”

Pidge glanced over at him, listening.

“They just-” He shifted, turning slightly and inclining his head toward the screen, cerulean eyes boring into hers. “I don’t want to speak too soon. We need to get a picture.”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure how we’re going to do that, but I might be able to come up with something.”

“What about a reflection?”

“Genius!” She grinned at him, curling her hand into a power fist and holding it out to connect triumphantly with Lance’s.

He met her with an explosive “Pfooo” as he spread out his fingers, pleased with himself.

“It might take a while to search, and if I do get something, I’ll still have to adjust the image and basically reconstruct it.” After rubbing her eyes, she opened her search parameters and fit her glasses back onto her face. She was going to have to write and compile a new algorithm.

“Okay.” Lance was still there.

After a moment, she looked up at him again. She knew why he hadn’t left, or at least she thought she did. As much as Lance liked to talk, anything directly relating to his heart or his loins got packed away in public and unpacked later in privacy, usually alone. She’d heard him muttering to himself in the shower or in his room through the wall that divided hers from his. His heart was simple when he wasn’t getting it all mixed up with his junk; he just wanted to be acknowledged, and Pidge thought that was part of how he and Keith had been able to establish and maintain status quo. Both of them wanted to get laid, they satisfied each other physically, and it meant that Keith could not ignore Lance. Not that she wanted to know exactly what went on in Keith’s room, and it was always Keith’s room, but she knew that whatever it was satisfied both of them, at least to some degree.

Chewing savagely on a nail, she considered the situation. She didn’t entirely understand it. In the beginning, she’d been on board, if only because it kept Keith away from using insecure dating apps to hook up with random strangers, and why question what seemed to be working? Except now Keith was no longer here, and it was becoming problematic.

She hated that word.

“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” Lance asked, concern in his voice and on his face marked by the cadence of his words, the furrow of his brow, and the tight draw of his lips to one side.

Popping her finger out of her mouth, she rolled her head around the back of her neck from right to left and cast him a level glance. “He’ll be fine, Lance. He’s an adult, and contrary to your apparent beliefs, he is actually capable of taking care of himself.”

“I know that, but I’m worried about him. And he’s not answering my calls or my texts or my emails.” He paused. “Pidge, what if they do something to him like they did to Shiro?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, though she was fairly sure she already knew the answer.

“Shiro isn’t Shiro. Do you really think Keith would have fought him like that if he were actually Shiro?”

“They also kissed multiple times,” she countered. “Do you think Keith would have kissed him like that? Do you think Keith would have _cried_ if he weren’t Shiro?”

_Keith doesn’t cry when he’s upset; he hits things._

Lance pulled back, frowning, the set of his jaw making his face appear stern and more angular than usual. “Something just isn’t right.”

“You’re right. It’s not,” came a voice from the doorway.

“Coran!” Pidge exclaimed in recognition, snapping her head around to see him. He must have let himself in.

Lance, suddenly self-conscious, tugged the too-small shirt past the waistband of his dark blue boxer briefs and smoothed down his hair.

“Hey man, haven’t seen you over here in awhile. What’s going on?” Hunk asked, approaching from the kitchen, apron spattered with flour and mixing bowl tucked under one arm as he stirred the contents.

Coran grinned and twisted the end of his mustache, shifting his weight and turning around swiftly to reply. “Oh, you know. Reconnaissance.”

They stared at him as he brushed the front of his coat with his white gloved hands and smoothed out the wrinkles.

“Recon? Ha.” Pidge rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the edge of her desk. “Good luck with that. So tell me, what sort of ‘reconnaissance’ is the princess’ lackey up to today?”

Amusement played at the corners of Coran’s mouth and mirth in the crow’s feet at his eyes. “First off, don’t confuse your perception of my role here with what my role actually is, Number Five.”

“Aren’t I ‘Number Three’ now?”

“Or at least ‘Number Four,’” Lance chimed in.

“No. You’re definitely Five.” Coran looked around, a quick assessment of the contents of Pidge’s room with his piercing jewel-like eyes. “You need to make some time for the sleepy-sleep and take your meals in some place other than your bed chamber.” He shifted his stare to Lance. “Number Three, I believe a shower is in order.” He paused, “Or maybe a nice hot bath? Clear out your skin, treat yourself to a facial, and if you’re going to continue wearing someone else’s clothes, at least wash them. You’re offending my delicate sensibilities.” His eyes scanned Lance from foot to head. “Are you sleeping in his bed?”

Lance’s cheeks flushed pink beneath Coran’s shrewd scrutiny, and he pressed his face to his shoulder, lifting the fabric of the shirt to his nose, trying to sniff himself as discretely as possible.

Coran continued, “And finally, Number One, go carry on with that banana bread. I’d like to enjoy it while we brainstorm what to do about Four and Two.” He made a ‘V’ with his fingers and pointed them at Lance and Pidge. “You two could take a lesson from that one. He doesn’t turn into a mess at the first upheaval. Thank goodness someone around here’s got a solid head on their shoulders.”

“Allura put you up to this, didn’t she?” Hunk asked, suspicious.

“No, she did not. This team is losing members left and right. If you permit me, I happen to be genuinely invested. I handpicked all five of you. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?” He made eye contact with each of them, one to the next to the next. “I had thought that talented young people would make the best team. You’re filled with conviction and able to take risks, while also being flexible and malleable. Did you know that Shiro is a national chess champion?”

“No, but I’m not surprised. He has a Ph.D. in star science.” Pidge picked at the dirt trapped beneath her fingernails, feigning disinterest. While Coran perhaps talked too much once he got started, he often offered up the most entertaining gossip fodder.

“He is incredibly good at solving complex problems under extreme pressure; it was so easy to pique his interest. As it was with the rest of you. Hunk was probably the most overqualified mechanic I have ever met.”

“Well, I do have-” Hunk started, but Coran cut him off.

“Yes, yes, a Master’s in mechanical engineering, but it’s skill that counts.”

Lance yawned.

“Lance…” He watched the lanky conman lean back against the doorframe away from Hunk with languid ease, lips smugly pursed and arms folded across his chest. “Do I detect a hint of envy? Come now, we got you your Green Card, and now you have citizenship. Your own talents are nothing to laugh at.”

“Yeah, and those are?” Lance muttered under his breath. Pidge didn’t think anyone else had heard him. She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Pidge and her codes,” Coran continued, enraptured by his own sonorous voice. Interrupting him was futile when he was in this deep.

The rest of them were going to fall asleep.

“Keith however. Now that one was a little different. Had I known he and Shiro knew each other, I wouldn’t have approached either one. I wanted him because he’s a survivor. He’s volatile, but fiercely loyal and runs on instinct and adrenaline. Every good team needs a fighting chance.”

He paused for breath. Finally. It was true what he was saying, the problem was where that loyalty went first. Keith’s skillset wasn’t particularly unique. It was his statistic report that Pidge, and apparently Coran, found so fascinating. She kept files on all of them. Keith should be dead. At the rate he was going, though? She wouldn’t be surprised if he were able to survive a nuclear winter unscathed. Lance should have been deported. Hunk would have done better working for a military contractor in safety and design. Shiro should have kept trying for a position at NASA. She should have looked into the NSA. At least that was her take on it.

He continued, “It’s my fault you’re all in this. We might have assembled an older team and let the five of you grow a little into the world first. Academia is not the real world. Nor is this play at procurement and appropriations. All of you could end your lives rotting away in Federal prisons for the things you’ve done. Things that she has put you up to and to which I have complacently turned a blind eye.”

They stared at him.

_Stop._

“Coran, you’re talking too much.” Pidge didn’t want to hear any more. He was being excessive, the old man waxing regretful over things he couldn’t change.

“I don’t think so, Five. I’m here to help get you kids out of this mess.”

“But we’re not kids,” Lance began, “I’m almost twent-.”

Coran shot him a level glance. “Take a good look at yourselves. Hunk is the only one of you three even dressed!”

Pidge sighed, “Point taken. However, I was just going over some of the Galran Tech surveillance videos with Lance, which might be more important than changing out of pajamas. I’ve got to write another search algorithm for what I think might be a lead on the assignment. I’m still not convinced it had nothing to do with Shiro. Lance pointed out that he wasn’t acting like himself.” She clicked back to the window where she had started the new code to search for reflections of the lion figurines.

“When does Shiro first appear in the video feeds?” Hunk asked. “It’s still not clear, to me at least, when he started working for Zarkon.”

“Hmm,” Pidge moused back to the video clip file. “Let’s see. I’ve been so caught up in everything else, I just haven’t checked yet.” She scrolled down. “It looks like the earliest files I have with Shiro are dated about two weeks out. Five and a half months ago.” She picked one at random and let it play.

This particular event took place in Zarkon’s office, no different from the way it appeared when they had observed Keith in there just the day before. Shiro’s head was bandaged, along with the stump of his right arm. Bruises and scrapes were still evident on his exposed flesh. He sat slumped in a chair at the desk, hooked to an IV drip, seemingly having trouble staying awake or sitting up.

“Shit,” Lance exclaimed. “He looks rough.”

“What have they got him on?” Hunk asked.

“I bet it’s an opioid,” Lance replied, riveted to the screen. “Just look at the way he’s swaying in the chair.”

“The real space juice, whatever it is,” Coran remarked, squinting at the video.

“That’s _my_ nickname!” Lance exclaimed.

“Yeah, because you’re _definitely_ a good drug,” Pidge added, the sarcasm practically dripping out of her mouth. “And how many nicknames is that, Lance ‘The Tailor’ ‘Space Juice’ ‘Blue Idol’ ‘Con-Lion’ ‘I-know-I’m-missing-like-five’ McClain? Not to mention, your name is probably just an alias.”

Lance shut his mouth.

“Truths shat from a politician’s ass never did blow out so smooth. Here Pidge, wipe that up.” Hunk eyed her, brow raised as he produced a dish towel from the pocket of his apron, holding it out.

Pidge shooed his hand away and adjusted her glasses, the images reflecting off her lenses. The brawny thug with the glowing ocular prosthesis and cybernetic arm whom she’d seen escorting Keith a few days earlier entered to retrieve Shiro, helping him to his feet. “Motherfuck.”

“Quiznak.” Coran uttered under his breath.”

“Huh? What kind of a word is that?” Hunk began but was interrupted by Lance.

“A rare and appropriate expletive,” Coran replied

“Quiznak, huh?” Lance mused. “So what do we do with this?” He gestured toward the screen.

“Hmm. Give me a moment.” Pidge adjusted the video, improving the picture quality and zooming in. Shiro’s face wasn’t visible, but Zarkon stood, front and center. “Welp,” she said, popping the second L, “who here reads lips?” This was going to be a bust for sure.

“I’m on this!” Lance spoke up almost immediately, despite the question having been rhetorical. He re-started the recorded video. “Let’s see, uh, ‘How sure are you that you don’t want to come work for me? Are you _sure_ , sure? The benefits are bound to be better. Regular hours, regular pay. We even have chili cookoffs! Now we don’t do Trivia Tuesdays yet, but if that’s gonna be a deal breaker we can certainly do a few trial runs, get that going. What a great team-building exercise!’”

“Oh, Lance.” Coran patted him on the back. “Good try.”

“You did an excellent job matching the cadence of his eyebrows,” Hunk nodded in sarcastic encouragement, stirring the batter under his arm.

“As I said, good try.” Coran re-started the video, clicking ‘Play.’ “However, what you meant to say is, ‘You don’t really believe that, do you? You don’t think he wouldn’t have left you there on purpose? Come now, Ta-ka-” Coran hesitated before realizing it was Shiro’s given name. “Takashi. Don’t be so naive. Look at all the things you had. Who wouldn’t want to be the leader in your place? Better pay, better resume. Only the strongest, only the best man could lead a team like that. Don’t you think you might have just been in the way?’”

The words matched Zarkon’s lips perfectly. Hunk and Pidge looked at each other. Lance’s jaw dropped, his mouth opening wide as he turned his head toward Coran.

“I was close though,” Lance whispered.

Coran rested his hands on his hips, smugly. “It was a skill that served me well in the SIS.”

“No way! Were you counterintelligence?” Pidge asked, excitedly, eyes wide behind her lenses.

He tilted his head to the side, “Retired of course.”

“MI6. You’re not even British,” she remarked, “No wonder I like you. Still, there’s no way Shiro would buy into that garbage.”

“I don’t know. He’s totally out of it. There’s no telling what he might believe,” Hunk replied.

Pidge laced her fingers together, cracking her knuckles as she turned her palms out away from her body. She had an idea. “All right, Coran, it looks like you and I have some work to do tonight.”

“Always glad to be of service, Number Five.” 

 

###  **v.**

Paralyzed by indecision, Shiro sat at the table lining the bottles of Zarcondiment and Vrepit Sauce up next to the napkin holder while trying to choose between another cup of coffee or eggs and bacon. The coffee was easy enough to make, but neither particularly good nor particularly filling. Eggs and bacon were delicious and satisfying, yet breakfast for one was an exercise in fortitude. Did he have the stamina to go through the motions of making a fifteen-minute meal that he would then consume in less than two? Some days he just didn’t want to do it. Okay, most days. Today was one of them. Maybe if he concentrated just hard enough, a microwave breakfast burrito would spontaneously manifest in his corner of the freezer. Or he could go out. McDonald’s, Chik-fil-A, Tim Horton’s, Starbucks, Denny’s. He could definitely go for a Denny’s All-American Slam right about now with fried eggs over easy and hickory bacon. Just thinking about it had his mouth watering and his stomach gurgling. There was still some time before his shift, he just had to motivate himself out of this chair and away from the table. As he was rationalizing his way around this very domestic, very first world problem, Keith shuffled into the kitchen, picking the sleep dust from his eyes with a fingernail.

Of course it would be Keith, the only person whose devil-may-care attitude gave him the freedom to shamble around this communal kitchen barefoot and wearing pajamas. The burgundy long-sleeved shirt with a celestial navigation print on it was a staple, but he did not remember the black fitted joggers with metallic gold thread woven into the jersey knit. He suspected those had been procured from the Ladies Juniors rack at some second-hand store. Reserving judgment, Shiro kind of appreciated the way they clung to Keith’s shapely legs, stopping just a little short of his ankles, a hint of sparkle with every step. Keith absently scratched his head through tousled hair, the bulk of it having escaped the messy hair tie, now tangled in a snarl. He’d been smoking; the scent of charred paper and tobacco wafted along behind him and hung in the air.

A lump caught in Shiro’s throat and, swallow as he might, it remained. He found himself someplace between perplexed curiosity, anger, and outright misery, definitely upset but not upset enough to engage conversation. Despite the certainty that he was being ignored, he continued to watch.

Apparently, Keith had gone shopping because his refrigerator shelf looked full and he had a new bag of whole bean coffee on hand. Unless his habits had changed in the past six and a half months, he’d probably spent around twenty dollars on it at some local coffee house. Shiro’s eyes followed him around as he started the kettle to warming and somehow located a spice mill and French press. Standing on tiptoe, he rummaged through the cabinet of communal mugs until he found one he wanted, stretching just enough for Shiro to see a hint of the cosmos over the waistband of his sweatpants.

It was probably his favorite of Keith’s tattoos, a cover up for the scars after all the surgeries he’d had from the motorcycle accident.

Shiro looked down at his hands; he finally got it, the lingering insecurity that came with experiences that changed one suddenly and physically. It wasn’t a thing he’d entirely understood before, but thinking about himself and how he’d been feeling about his own body, adjusting to the damage was hard. He’d never be the same, he’d never feel the same. He had to make do as he was now.

Several minutes later, Keith had finished. He padded over to Shiro slowly, rubbing at his chin and then coughing into his sleeve to clear his throat. “‘I never wanted to see you again,’ huh?” One brow raised in question as he set the mug of coffee down and passed it carefully across the tabletop. Shiro saw that his wrist was freshly bandaged.

He also noticed that the coffee he’d just been given smelled pretty damned good.

Their eyes locked, and Shiro didn’t know quite what he was searching for. What sort of confirmation did he require? Keith was intentionally standing just out of reach. He decided they needed to talk, but the tension building around them held him frozen in place.

He recalled the words. _“I TRIED!”_ and _“Why aren’t you listening to me?”_

_Because trying isn’t good enough._ “Sorry” wasn’t even in Keith’s vocabulary.

Yet this same person had just made him coffee and served it to him in a mug with an image wrap of stars and constellations.

Maybe he should have listened?

When had _he_ become the one to lose his temper so quickly with the mantra of, “do first, ask questions later?” He could not have imagined it would be like this, with a residual tenderness, gummy at the edges, where some small vestige of warmth and compassion remained. It wasn’t a concession, it was just _there_. Only days ago, he had thought it was gone, but it hadn’t been, and trying to erase that had tilted him right over the edge. It wasn’t a leap; it was more of a plunge, and it had left him with a black eye and a fat lip, coated in blood that did not belong to him, as well as some that did. He’d thought they were already over. He hadn’t realized it was a joint decision and not all parties had signed the memo.

But hadn’t Keith issued the memo in the first place?

“Are you going to stop staring at me?”

“No.” Shiro didn’t hesitate in his response or even blink as he grabbed the mug and lifted it to his lips. Perfection the way he liked it, a little bit of coffee with his milk and sugar. The flavor was smooth with just a hint of spice, tasting notes of chocolate, currant, and wild cherries. Shiro continued to observe after Keith broke eye contact and turned back to the counter to pour the second cup for himself.

Without another exchange between them, Keith made coffee for everyone who came into the kitchen. It was certainly one way to meet more of the team. Sendak liked half-and-half, Thace wanted half coffee half milk, Haxus wanted enough grounds remaining at the bottom of his cup to chew between his front teeth, Kolivan didn’t care as long as he got some, Antok was still on duty, and Ulaz, well, Keith was out of luck there. That guy only drank tea. The result of all this, ultimately, was that everyone did their part in contributing to breakfast and Denny’s could wait for another day.

It was the start of a new trend, although once Keith started wearing his uniforms, Shiro no longer caught him in pajamas first thing in the morning. Their shifts overlapped, but they never saw each other, and he could not decide if that was a good thing or bad. It meant that he could avoid Keith if he wanted to. He had other options than to join his teammates for breakfast, yet he continued to go. It only became uncomfortable when Sendak approached him at lunch after a few days to ask him why he and Keith didn’t speak to each other.

“It’s complicated.”

The other man had laughed, a deep rumbling from his gut that shook him to his core. “That’s a Facebook relationship status.”

More precisely, it was Shiro’s Facebook relationship status and had been since graduate school. He rarely touched social media and hadn’t done so at all in the past six months. He had raised his eyebrows and sealed his lips. His other option had been to give away the entire sob story of his life that ended in confusion, heartbreak, and more confusion. It was hard to explain, even to himself. It was mushy and melodramatic. Besides, the branch had been extended, and it was still possible to change the narrative, wasn’t it? Keith kept a wide berth whenever they passed each other, yet they managed to maintain civility. In the mornings, Keith still pushed the mug of coffee toward him from the opposite side of the table. What did he think Shiro was going to do to him?

With his left hand, Shiro massaged the palm of his prosthetic right, turning it over, feeling the armature of the hand through the silicone pad. What had he _intended_ to do to Keith? He did not want to think about the answer, but he knew. He had completely lost control of himself.

_This is not how I am._

_How are you, Shiro, really?_

He still wasn’t quite sure he understood why Keith was here. There had to be something he wanted and wanted badly.

For Shiro, remaining here was something to do while he figured things out, with perhaps a bit of gratitude for being alive. He wasn’t quite ready to let go. Even before he’d ended up in this place, he had wanted to start a new chapter, but that dream had been crushed along with his heart beneath shattered glass and steel supports. They’d mended his shell, but couldn’t fill it. He was a dried out empty husk, and could not be convinced otherwise.

_Dust to dust._

In the end, he had told Sendak nothing. He wasn’t going to throw Keith under the bus like that.

He also wasn’t going to out either of them, but that was a different matter entirely.

He was beginning to feel like he needed some space. _Space, get it?_ He almost laughed at himself, as if that would give him the opportunity to readjust to this presence in his life he didn’t even want to acknowledge. He remained constantly on his guard, and it was beginning to feel like he could not escape as if fate had ordained something for him that followed him around wherever he went. A nearly imperceptible red string of destiny was knotted around his little finger; it snared him in its web, and every small movement just entangled him further.

He needed to get away for a bit, to clear his head. 

 

###  **vi.**

The Fripping Bulgogian happened to be Shiro’s favorite Korean bar and barbecue, and not just because it was the only Korean restaurant around. The food was exceptional and satisfied his more than occasional cravings for homemade kimchee and bulgogi. He and Keith had discovered the place when they were still students. It had been about a forty minute drive off-campus, but always worth it, and the staff would let them stay long past their meal. It was their place, and for the past several months Shiro hadn’t gone there for anything other than take-out with a bottle of soju. The memories stung.

The hostess recognized him on sight. “Shiro! Your friend is here, but I didn’t know you were coming.”

He blinked and followed her. Friend? He hadn’t made plans to meet anyone.

Apparently, neither had Keith. Shiro watched him as they approached. He tore his gaze away from his phone, immediately stopped scrolling, and engaged the lock screen before setting it face down beside the napkin where his chopsticks were folded neatly up. The long sleeves of his shirt hid his hands down to his fingers, effectively covering the bandages on his wrist. He braced against the edge of the table, poised to shove his chair back at any moment, ready to escape.

The hostess looked from Shiro to Keith and back to Shiro, baffled by their behavior. She pulled out the chair opposite Keith, still eyeing Shiro expectantly. Her eyes drifted over him, stopping at his prosthetic hand before averting her gaze.

Already uncomfortable, he wiped his palm, cold and clammy, on his pant leg.

“Really, it’s fine. I’ll eat at the bar.” Shiro forced a small smile and held his hands up in refusal, but she pursed her lips and set down the menu.

Cautiously, he sat, feeling the keen burn of Keith’s gaze on his every movement. The hostess poured his cup of tea from the pot in front of Keith and patted his shoulder before turning away. As soon as she left, Shiro was on his feet again. “I’d better go.” Cooking grease crackled, and the smell of meat on the grill drifted out from the kitchen. The palpable heaviness in the air around them made it hard to breathe.

Keith scooted in, propping his elbows on the table and folding his hands together to rest his chin. “I’d like it if you stayed.” He chewed on the inside of his lip, drawing his mouth into a small frown.

Shiro picked up the menu. His stomach turned over, and a great weight settled in his limbs. “This is awkward.”

“C’mon, you’re already here,” annoyance evident in Keith’s tone as he stared up at Shiro, his eyes penetrating, even through the dimly lit ambiance.

Shiro drew his lips into a thin line, and he shook his head, stepping away from the chair, about to push it in. He didn’t think he could do this right now.

In an instant, Keith pushed back his chair and stood, raising his voice over the din of conversation, composure frayed at the edges. “Will you just sit down?” Both of his palms slammed flat against the top of the table, rattling the contents and sloshing roasted barley tea out of his mug. The liquid spread across the shellacked surface toward Shiro until it dripped off the edge onto the floor.

Shiro pulled back to avoid the splatter. “You don’t have to yell.”

“I’m not yelling!” Keith shouted, leaning forward across the table.

“Yes, you are.” Shiro returned softly, trying his best to keep his tone level. That had always been the best way to deal with Keith’s temperament, especially when he didn’t understand where it was coming from.

Keith slowly sank back down to his chair, leaving his hands where Shiro could see them.

Shiro followed his lead. People were staring, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To shame him into staying there? He’d been caught off-guard. How often could Keith have done things like this when Shiro had just assumed it was Keith being, well, Keith? Zarkon had challenged his core sense of reality and, he no longer knew what he could trust.

“Here,” Keith reached behind his back and pulled out his dagger, setting it on the table between them, the point of the blade toward the wall. “You don’t touch me, and I won’t cut you. Fair?”

Shiro studied his expression. The slight tremor in the furrow of his brow and a tightening of his jaw bespoke Keith’s resolve. If their places had been reversed, Shiro knew he would have felt the same. Keith’s bandaged wrist was still oozing. It was probably itchy and very painful. He couldn’t even remember why he’d done it, what exactly had set him over the edge, whether or not it had it been a combination of things in the heat of the moment. He’d snapped. “Fair,” he replied.

It seemed a satisfactory response. Keith visibly relaxed, pulling his elbows behind his head to crack his shoulders, first one then the other. With each breath, Shiro followed the rise and fall of his chest, the way his collarbones and the top of his sternum protruded ever so slightly each time he inhaled.

They probably looked almost normal like this, like any two people having a meal together, minus the dagger on the table that was obviously not a standard utensil or kitchen knife. The bruising around Shiro’s eye was nearly faded, and he had gone to the clinic just the day before to have the stitches in his lip removed. Keith was breathing through his nose again.

What constituted ‘normal’ anyway?

Shiro shrugged off his leather bomber jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, beginning to find his bearings. After wiping up the spilled tea, he folded his hands over the menu in front of him.

Keith broke the silence first. “Are you going to talk to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he paused and took a deep breath, “are you going to tell me what I did wrong?” His voice cracked, a cruel betrayal, and he shut his mouth again immediately.

There couldn’t possibly be deception here, could there? Shiro didn’t understand it at all. If Keith had wanted him out, then why did he keep trying to initiate a truce? That’s what all of this amounted to, right?

_I see you every day and yet entire galaxies exist between us._

_I thought I knew you._

Shiro’s thoughts were interrupted by the waitress, back with another pot of tea and fresh napkins. She asked for his order before leaving again. Keith waited. He tried to think, to put it into words. His head hurt from the effort, and all he could recall was having fallen into blackness, a prickling burn up his right arm that had escalated to excruciating pain. Fire had blazed around him, and when he had called Keith’s name, nothing. The overwhelming desperation crippled his tongue. He opened his mouth, and the words had gone. They hadn’t escaped; they just weren’t there.

He shook his head, unable to even maintain eye contact. Why could he not do this one simple thing? He knew he had to; he had decided they needed to talk. But put on the spot like this, did Keith understand the difficulty of this task?

When the sharing plates arrived, they fell into a familiar routine; Keith picking at the spicier dishes and piling bite-sized portions on top of his rice while Shiro sampled each one first, despite already knowing what everything was. He was determined to use his chopsticks, though he hadn’t tried since he’d lost his arm, and as a formerly right-handed person, his success ratio of food to mouth versus food to floor, lap, or table was depressingly low. It was just one more thing to add to his list of struggles. While he told himself it wasn’t any use being upset over things he was powerless to change, he felt frustrated and angry. Even now, he was still adjusting to this new limb. It required a different type of muscle memory. Impossible tasks presented themselves daily, and it was both overwhelming and discouraging. Every time he made some progress, something else set his confidence back and dissuaded him from practice. Shiro’s handwriting was an illegible spidery scrawl because he couldn’t keep a pen between his thumb and first two fingers. He had trouble with buttons and had given up on them all together in favor of snaps and zippers. He was able to boil water using his new hand as a hot plate, yet he could barely manage to feed himself.

His mother would have cried. Chopsticks reminded him of home, and home reminded him that he had still not gone to see his mom and let her know that he was even alive. Mom, Keith, he was practically useless at this sort of thing. He wasn’t even sure what had compelled him to confront Keith at the gala. One more note of uncertainty to add to the pile.

After several long minutes of failure and embarrassment, Keith held a hand out toward him, palm up.

“Give them to me.”

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Shiro handed over his chopsticks.

Yanking out his hair tie, Keith wrapped it tightly around the ends of the chopsticks securing them together. He took the paper wrapper still on the table and rolled it up, pressing it flat into a rectangle before folding it in half and shoving it up between the bound utensils, creating a fulcrum. Before handing them back, he pressed them together a few times in the air, admiring his own handiwork. “Try that,” he said.

All Shiro had to do was focus on applying just enough pressure to pick up his food. It worked, and he sighed with relief as some of the tension slipped from his tired shoulders.

Keith took a bite of kimchee while he watched, then covered his mouth with his napkin, talking and chewing. “That’s how my dad taught me.” He swallowed, then pointed to Shiro’s hand with his chopsticks, “I’m sure it’s just practice.”

“Probably.” Shiro nodded and forced himself to look up. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to recenter. “Thanks.” Shiro couldn’t even recall the last time Keith had brought up either of his parents in conversation; he just didn’t do that.

“Of course.”

He realized they must have ordered the same thing when the waitress arrived carrying a giant platter of raw, seasoned beef. She lit the grill, and they watched as she cooked the meat. When it was ready, Shiro bound it up with sauce in rolls of lettuce.

“ _I think they’re supposed to be more like bombs. Tiny little lettuce bombs.”_

_“I’m making rolls. If you’d rather have a bomb, do it yourself. I will not be held accountable for any loss of phalanges because you exploded a bomb in your hand.”_

_“Shiro, you are such a nerd.”_

_“Takes one.”_

“Itadakimasu,” he said, setting the plate next to the dagger in the center of the table.

“Bon appetit,” Keith replied. “You know, we should ask what that is in Korean.”

“I think I did once, but I forgot.”

Keith shrugged and took a bite of wrapped bulgogi.

Their small talk was the babble of two people who didn’t know what to say to each other, or, conversely, two people who did and didn’t want to say those things out loud for fear that voicing them, hearing them would make them real. Shiro didn’t press or push for fear of tipping this tenuous balance, yet he still asked himself, _how_? How could Keith not _know_ what had upset him?

When the check came, Keith pulled some bills from his wallet and left cash on the table. Standing to leave, he slipped on his jacket and stashed his phone away in an inside pocket. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

Shiro set his money on top, glad that this was over. Next time, he’d call in an order for take-out. He just hadn’t known what he was walking into. Keith’s bike was not in the lot. If he had seen it, he would have gone elsewhere. “How are you getting back?”

“I’m walking.” Keith picked up his knife and slid it back into the sheath at his belt.

It was probably about six miles. Not too far, but far enough. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“We’re going to the same place.” Shiro tugged his own jacket on and zipped it up.

“Later, Shiro.”

Shiro started toward him, to reach out and stop him from leaving, but the look Keith cut him, hand immediately at the hilt of the dagger, stopped him dead.

No one was watching them anymore.

“ _You don’t touch me…_ ”

_Better be careful, or you won’t have any fingers left._

Shiro let his hand fall. “Please?” Why was he even asking, and why did he feel relieved when Keith warily, hand still on the knife, nodded?

 

###  **vii.**

Sharing a table had gone unexpectedly well; sharing a car had not.

“Stop. Just stop, okay?” Keith hopped out the second the car pulled into its spot at Galran Tech, slamming the door. Irritated, his reservoir of patience nearly dry, he turned away and stalked off across the parking deck toward the elevators.

“Come on!” Shiro jogged to catch up, “Look, I didn’t mean-”

“Didn’t mean what?” Keith pivoted abruptly on his heel. Stabbing his finger sharply in the direction of Shiro’s chest, he continued, “Didn’t mean to be an ass? The entire ride back here was just one complaint after another. ‘Make sure you wipe your feet before you get in. I think you’re shedding on the headrest. Wait, maybe don’t lean back, okay? Keith! What are you doing? Just - just don’t touch anything!’ What the hell? It’s just a car!” He threw up his hands, inhaling sharply as he forced himself to breathe.

Shiro stopped just short of accidentally impaling himself on that finger. “Keith!” he whined, flustered and upset.

Looking up at Shiro, Keith laced his digits through his hair, raking nails across his scalp and pulling his head back to relieve the pressure of his oncoming headache. He refused to give ground.

“Why can’t you talk to me? How is it that you can’t tell me what I did to hurt you, yet you can blow enough hot air to harass me for _existing_ in your car after _you_ insisted on driving me back here?” He quirked a brow, but getting nothing more out of Shiro, he rolled his eyes and spun around again, continuing toward the exit.

Keith slammed the elevator call button with his fist, then jabbed it again several times in succession. When the elevator failed to immediately arrive, he abandoned it for the stairs, taking them quickly two at a time. Shiro followed, drawn along in his wake.

He didn’t know whether or not he was being unreasonable, just that he was running near to searing and needed to calm down before he did more damage to this already messed up situation. He wished Shiro were able to vocalize it, whatever _it_ was. He wasn’t a mind reader. Abandonment? He got that. Deception? Okay, but for what? He wasn’t even capable of lying without giving himself away.

The muscle spasmed at his temple, almost in time with the jackhammer thrumming away behind his eyes and he rubbed it, popping his jaw to ease the tightness.

“You okay?”

He’d momentarily forgotten Shiro was there. “Yeah. I’m _fine_ ,” he spat.

What was it again Shiro had told him about solving problems?

_Shiro._

_Patience yields focus._

_Breathe._

Keith needed to collect some packages from the mailroom. He’d received the notice that afternoon and decided to retrieve them now before he forgot. As he approached the door, he spotted three brown boxes through the glass, stacked on the floor beside the wall of mailboxes, the bold block letters forming his name in blue marker, ‘K. A. KOGANE,’ legible from the entrance.

Shiro followed him in.

Keith decided to check his mailbox later. Someone’s idea of a good joke, or maybe a bad one, had been to assign him a box on the very top row. He hoped they were satisfied, whomever they were, most likely laughing over the security footage of him scaling the rows of locked aluminum cubbies or jumping to peer inside every time he needed to check his mail because he was just too short.

Investing in a stepstool was not an option; he would not be _that_ person.

He collected his packages, which were large enough to be cumbersome, but not entirely unwieldy.

“What did you get?” Shiro asked.

“I don’t know,” he snapped back.

“Are those from Lance?”

Keith stopped before the door. The handwriting gave it away. “Probably.”

He hadn’t spoken to Lance at all since he’d left, yet these were the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth packages that had been sent. Jamming the end of a box against the door latch, it gave, and Keith shoved on through. Shiro reached over from behind to hold it open, an unnecessary gesture.

“Can I help?” Shiro asked.

“No.” This was getting tiresome.

Keith sensed no threat from Shiro; he hadn’t all evening, but he still wasn’t sure could trust his instincts. The exhibition opening was a discrete memory now, crystallized in his brain bank, numbered, stored, and shelved for retrieval. Two weeks removed and with some hindsight, he could cross-examine it more objectively. He had known something was very wrong when he had first recognized Shiro, but he hadn’t listened to the signs. At least not until he had found himself snared by the yoke of a tender touch and held captive by a kiss, a regular sleeping beauty.

He set down the boxes and sifted through the contents of his pockets for his key. Pulling out his wallet and cigarettes first, he finally found it after his second search along with a handful of ticket stubs, receipts, a paperclip, two lighters, a crumpled twenty, and an expired condom. Keith grappled with the lock as he pulled it forward and up to turn the key half around to the right and back counterclockwise until the locking bolt slid out and the door swung in on creaking hinges. He wanted to have this time alone to cool down and rethink his strategy, but he also wanted to allow Shiro the time to say what he needed to.

Shiro crossed the threshold behind him but didn’t shut the door.

He was okay with that. It meant that Shiro had some basic understanding of his current standing within the hierarchy of things Keith was okay with. Currently, the needle hovered around marginally tolerable.

Jerking his shoulders back and letting his jacket slide off his arms, Keith grabbed the collar before it hit the ground and tossed it on his bed.

What was less okay was the evidence of his admirer who sent at least one and sometimes multiple packages daily, a great cardboard fortress stacked in a corner of his room. He was confident that some unfortunate intern had been assigned the task of scanning the boxes and recording their contents. Somewhere, Galran Technologies had a list of all the clothing items, beauty products, and accessories that came through the mail room for a one, unexpectedly fashion conscious, Keith Kogane. They were like Valentines, only there were no hearts and no secrets. He knew exactly who his admirer was.

It had started with a box of lip balm, variations on the flavor red in colorful tubes and plastic pots, cherry, strawberry, raspberry, something that looked like cough syrup in a bottle. A note tucked inside, handwritten at a slight slant with regular and precise cursive letters, broken up at the peaks and tails of each word with blotchy navy ink read:

_Your kissable lips are always chapped._

Arriving one day later, the second package contained a soft ivory scarf with large, red and black plaid striping and a tag from some store called Burberry. This time the note was written on a card with an embossed golden koi twisting across at the bottom of the paper, tucked in a fancy envelope with an aqua tissue liner.

_Baby, it’s cold outside._

 

Keith had rubbed his fingertips along the hand-painted edges of the heavy, cotton stock for seven minutes and fifty-eight seconds of deep contemplation before noticing that he had left gray smudges along the sides.

He had not yet done anything with the contents of a single package after opening, examining, and reading the notes. The home waxing kit was terrifying and had immediately been buried at the bottom of the stack. On the other hand, the Chloé Susanna ivory leather ankle boots with pointed toes, low heels, and gold buckles fascinated him with their ambivalent and iconic appeal. Included with them were hand-drawn style sheets with blurbs in the margins scribed in the same careful hand as the notes. He thought the figure looked like himself, slender but with a compactness of frame evidencing a solid physique, with shaggy, black, longish hair, angular features, and pale with dark eyes. In all fairness to the artist, it probably was his likeness, weird and kind of disconcerting. Nothing was signed, yet Lance’s mark was on every carefully chosen aspect. All of the paper smelled of his cologne. Eau Sauvage from the House of Dior; Keith had it committed to memory.

Shiro looked over at the boxes, peering inside one on the top, reading the note that had been left there. It was the sweater box. Keith closed his eyes and tried not to groan.

_Shag like wool or shag 100%?_

 

“Why is Lance sending you care packages.” Shiro grabbed another and rifled the contents.

By the sound it was either lotions, hand creams, and shaving cream:

_Remember to moisturize!_

Or jewelry accessories, representing an aesthetic of red, black, gold, and space that included an assortment of rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings, brooches, cufflinks, and a tie tack. Keith had been unable to determine whether the box was serious or ironic.

_Hazy cosmic jive on a wave of phase?_

 

“I’m not sure I’d call them care packages.”

“How else would you describe personal grooming supplies sent in a box with a little note tucked inside?”

Keith raised his shoulders slightly and let them fall again. He didn’t know, and Shiro was probably right. He turned back to the door to collect the three new parcels he’d left there. “It’s rude to go through other people’s things.”

Shiro froze and put the box down immediately, stepping away from the pile before speaking up again. “Are you dating Lance?”

“What? No.”

“You’re wearing a watch worth at least twenty grand that I’m willing to bet he bought for you, and you’re not dating?”

Keith pushed up his right sleeve and stared at it. “He decimated my Timex.”

“Did you have sex with Lance?”

Was it that obvious? “That’s none of your business.”

Shiro paused, about to speak, then shut his mouth abruptly while they stared at each other.

Keith counted the seconds.

_...sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…_

Beads of sweat prickled over Shiro’s forehead and the tight taper above his ears. “You did!” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling as it caught between his fingers, eyes large.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I really did.”

“You fucked Lance,” Shiro stated, more to himself than to Keith. “I can’t believe this!” His gaze fixed on the pile of boxes, shoulders hanging in defeat. “I just-“

Keith had enough. “Get out.” He pointed to the door, still wide open. “Right now.”

“No. Keith, we need to-”

His shoulders stiffened, and his hands balled into fists, clenching them so tightly his nails gouged the heels of his palms and his knuckles turned white. He had forgotten how to breathe. “ _We_ need to do nothing. _You_ need to get out of here. What do you want from me?” Keith swallowed down the lump in his throat and blinked back the building rage.

Shiro shook his head, unable to articulate.

Without warning, Keith gripped him by the arms, pulling him forward, so they were at the same level. “Do you even know? You _died_. Did you expect everything else to stop because you did?” He searched Shiro’s face, gray eyes staring back at him, glassy and sad. He heard the blood rush through his head with each heartbeat, resonating through to the tips of his fingers. They were so dangerously close, Keith could smell Shiro’s scent, feel the warm breath on his lips. He leaned in nearer, so their faces almost touched. Heat tingled down his spine, and he drew his shoulders back, arching slightly to suppress it before it settled in his groin. “Guess what? At a certain point, the rest of us have to get on with our lives. You ain’t shit, Shiro. Get over yourself. You walked out of my life; you don’t get to decide how you fit back into it.”

Shiro winced and tried to twist free, but Keith only tightened his hold. He could see it now, the twinge of the muscle around an eye, feel that same reverberation where the pads of his fingers bore into Shiro’s right tricep at the point where metal met flesh.

_Don’t._

Keith forced Shiro away with a “good night” before he’d had a chance to recover and shut the door behind him, turning the bolt immediately.

He went through the motions of taking a shower hoping the steam and hot water would clear his head. It didn’t.

Keith re-dressed the healing burn, then grabbed his phone and climbed onto his bed. He’d meant to clean out his messages over dinner but had been unexpectedly interrupted. Every voicemail had been from Lance, and after listening to the first one, he decided to leave his box full on purpose.

 

“ _Keith Kogane. I don’t like the sound of your name. It’s hard on the tongue and grates against my teeth. Yet here I am, reciting it back to you, the first line of a poem. It’s the opening and not the end._

_I’m lying naked on your bed, and I’m thinking about your hands._

_Call me._ ”

 

He refused to listen to the rest.

Turning off the read notifications, he scrolled through the barrage of texts, only focusing on the last desperate few. He shook his head. This was a different problem than the one he’d shoved out the door half an hour earlier.

Swiping through his app screens, he noticed an alert on the Dropbox app icon. He only used the storage site for one thing: collecting cryptid media and sharing that with Pidge. He didn’t think anyone else even had the email address associated with that account and wondered what had been shared with him, but stopped himself before checking. He turned his phone off. The battery was about to die anyway, and he needed to find his charger. Later.

Keith leaned back, piling as much of his wet hair as possible on top of his head before hitting the pillow. He needed to start solving his problems instead of making more; he was also bored and hadn’t been laid in over two weeks. With those considerations, he decided to tackle the Lance complication first. It was either that or reinstall dating apps. He rolled over, suspending himself half over the side of the bed. Holding his breath, Keith reached underneath to grab his laptop from behind a balled up t-shirt, some stray socks, dirty dishes, one boot, and a pair of underwear he’d been missing for several days.

After logging in, he checked his email. The Dropbox alert _was_ from Pidge, but he didn’t read the subject line. Nearly everything else was just message after message from Lance.

What a mess. He felt like just tossing everything he owned into a pyre, sitting himself down in the center, and lighting the whole thing up.

After opening the Discourse chat client and setting the authentication and encryption protocol, Keith decided to create a new profile. While he didn’t have the patience to come up with a clever username, he knew exactly what to call his private chat room. Having previously memorized Lance’s user number, he added it to his list with a friend request, then set the computer aside while he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

Upon his return, he glanced at his screen while he rooted through his jacket pockets for his cigarettes. Notifications were waiting for him. He lit his smoke and sat back down on the bed.

**bluidol** has accepted your friend request!

**bluidol** was successfully added to **DeepImpact** chat!

**bluidol** : sup?

**bluidol** : how are you?

**bluidol** : is everything alright?

**bluidol** : did you get the packages?

**bluidol** : hey you there?

**bluidol** : talk to me bro!

 

Keith sipped his coffee. Now that he had Lance’s full attention, he wasn’t sure where to start.

**maverick84** : Hey.

**bluidol** : its about time

**bluidol** : so how are you?

**maverick84** : I’m okay.

 

He could say whatever he wanted to; it would be so easy to type out the words, “I miss you,” and hit return, but that wasn’t the message he wanted to convey. Lance had to stop sending things and stuffing Keith’s inbox, voicemail, and data plan with these annoying pleas for attention. It was hard not to think about him when he made himself so undeniably present.

**bluidol** : your phones not on just tried to call

**maverick84** : I turned it off.

**maverick84** : It’s at 5%.

**maverick84** : Also, it’s probably not secure.

**bluidol** : did you open the packages i sent?

**maverick84** : All but today’s.

**bluidol** : open them

 

Keith sighed and set the MacBook aside as he climbed off the bed. He opened the largest box first, cautiously cutting through the packing tape with the point of his dagger. Packed in a sea of foam blocks and peanuts, Lance had sent him his Gibson Les Paul, personalized with a smattering of worn band stickers and decals, scuffs, and scratches. This meant that the second largest box was probably his amp, and upon opening it, he saw he’d guessed correctly. This left only the smallest of the three. Inside, wrapped in another box, tied with a bright red bow and wrapped with cream-colored tissue was a crimson wool pea coat. Clutching it to his chest, he stared at the note.

_It’s your favorite color. Stay warm!_

 

What really got to him was how painfully obvious it was that everything Lance sent had been carefully chosen specifically for him, even if it was something he wouldn’t have purchased for himself. He didn’t particularly understand it, but Lance actually cared.

And the thing was, he did too, not that Keith wanted to admit it, but there it was. The longing was different from what he felt for Shiro. It wasn’t a romantic sort of love; it was more akin to the tried and tested comfortable closeness of best friends that came with a casual ease.

**bluidol** : youre taking a long time

**bluidol** : what are you doing?

**bluidol** : water

**bluidol** : water you doing?

**bluidol** : come on talk to me!

**maverick84** : Give me a sec, I just opened them.

**bluidol** : and?

**maverick84** : I like the coat. A lot.

**bluidol** : do you know how hard it was to find it in your size in that color?

**maverick84** : Thank you.

**bluidol** : dinner tomorrow?

**maverick84** : Sure. I want McDonald’s.

**bluidol** : haha no

**maverick84** : Yes.

**bluidol** : no. meet you at crescent cove?

**bluidol** : 1630 good?

**bluidol** : charge your phone

**maverick84** : Yeah, okay.

**maverick84** : See you then.

 

Keith was about to exit out of the client, but Lance followed up almost immediately,

**bluidol** : one more thing

**maverick84** : What is it?

**bluidol** : will you play something for me?

 

It wouldn’t hurt if he did, he supposed. He didn’t have neighbors to complain. Antok was the nearest at the end of the hall. Keith knew this because they’d finally crossed paths that morning, The only member of the security team he hadn’t previously met.

**maverick84** : Okay, give me a sec.

 

Another alert.

**bluidol** would like to video chat!

 

Keith made him wait. The first thing he did was grab the shirt he’d spotted under his bed, a faded and worn tee with the USCSS Nostromo logo across the chest. The sniff test confirmed that it wasn’t yet rank and could therefore be worn at least one more time before laundering. Not that anyone would be close enough to care. Finishing his cigarette, he dropped the butt into his salvaged bottle before pulling the shirt on over his head. He plugged in the amp and connected his guitar, settling the strap over his shoulder and tuning it by ear before returning to the chat and opening the camera view to adjust it. When he was finally ready, Keith clicked accept. He smoothed his damp and unruly hair as best he could while waiting for the feed to load.

Lance waved from the screen, lying on his bare stomach in his own bed with the sheets pulled over himself and his computer like a teenager hiding a secret from his parents, the glow from his laptop, casting a greenish blue light around him as if in some cavern under the sea. He rested his chin on his arms, folded in front of his keyboard, eyes wide and so very blue.

“Hey, mermaid.” Keith’s mouth ticked up in a lopsided smile.

Lance smirked. “I’m not a mermaid yet. I still have to wear pants.”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Hunk and Pidge might complain, besides, look who’s talking. You’re fully dressed!”

“True… So what do you want to hear?”

Opening his mouth and then closing it again, Lance paused a moment. “Beck.”

“Beck?” He was probably going to have to look the song up, whatever it was.

“Yeah. You know, the one that goes like, “ _They say that we’ve got nothing, but a dollar for a life of sin. ‘Cause there’s trouble on the way, oh there’s trouble on the way. Dah-na-na-na-na-na for a judgment day-_ ”

“ _-Here we a-are_ ,” They sang together, and Keith broke into a grin. He recognized the song from the radio, despite Lance’s endearing and quiet, off-key singing. His fingers found their places on the strings without hesitation, picking out the tune between the chord progressions as Lance tapped out the beat swaying his head and shoulders in time. When Keith sang, and he enjoyed singing, his voice strong and clear, sometimes pushing out vibrato along the trailing sustains, other times just ending them abruptly.

“ _Running circles around-around-around-around. When nothing’s right just close your eyes, close your eyes and you’re gone._ ”

 

###  **viii.**

Keith awoke with his head at the foot of the bed and his hair still not dry. He was half-curled around the body of his guitar with his feet hanging off the side. Rousing himself to a sitting position, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. He stretched one arm up over his head while thrusting the other hand down the front of his sweats to satiate an itch.

He had forgotten to brush his teeth, and with the same fingernails that had just been scratching his balls, he scraped at the scummy buildup along his gum line before huffing a breath into his palm to check for odor. Yeah, okay, he needed to brush his teeth. And probably floss. Meaning he would have to vacate his bed.

Not that it mattered, the mattress was too soft, he’d slept terribly, and his sinuses were throbbing with the pressure of having fallen asleep with his face smashed into his laptop, the moist imprint of the keys on his cheek and forehead. That’s what he got for staying up so late.

Pulling himself together, Keith went to grab some semblance of sustenance from the dregs of his refrigerator shelf but returned afterward. He cracked the window for some fresh air and lit a cigarette. The day could get started without him, only eventually he would have to figure out what he was doing about this Lance date.

What was there to decide? It was a date.

He’d never been on a date with Lance, at least not the sort of date that was a dinner invitation followed by a time and meeting place. That kind of date required a certain refinement in which, as Keith was well-aware, he was not properly schooled. For starters, he would have to wear something other than what he had fallen asleep in. Looking around his room and judging by the open drawers of the bureau and his empty duffel bag, the probability of most of his clothing having been worn and subsequently consigned to the floor seemed very high. On the other hand, there was a stack of packages overwhelming two walls; surely he could piece together an outfit. He set himself to the task.

While Lance had carefully removed the price tags, Keith suspected that if he looked up the cost of each individual article now laid across his comforter, he would be horrified at the amount of money spent on garments and accessories. He knew they were expensive by the texture and the fit. In the end, he followed one of the style sheets, pairing skinny black pants with an oversized, ivory, cable knit sweater. The red in his scarf matched the pea coat perfectly. Although he would have preferred to wear his touring boots, they were currently filthy with cracks through the soles across the ball of each foot, so he slipped his feet into the ankle boots, hoping the break-in period would be short. He gathered his messy tresses at the back of his head and as an afterthought, peered into the box of jewelry before deciding that his watch, worn on his right arm, was enough accessorization.

He felt out of place, but then anything that wasn’t a t-shirt and jeans or gym wear felt off.

When Keith arrived at the pier, Lance was already waiting, casually leaning his forearms against the railing, hands encased in teak kidskin driving gloves crossed in front of him. Below, the water crashed against the pillars. As he turned his head, the wind ruffled his hair, sweeping his short fringe across his forehead. He brushed it away before raising a hand in greeting, lips parting into his trademark smile.

Keith’s heels betrayed every footfall across the planks of the boardwalk. Counting each step in his head, he hardly noticed his heart slam up against his ribs. He felt Lance’s eyes on him, searching him over appraisingly as he approached. He casually pushed up his sleeve to check the time; four eighteen and he was still early, just as he’d thought.

“You look good.”

Did he? “I had nothing else to wear.”

“Wow. Way to be a killjoy. Take the compliment.” Lance pulled him close, wrapping long arms around him, pressing Keith’s forehead into his sternum.

Keith lost a beat before hugging him back, stepping in closer and settling his head in the hollow of Lance’s shoulder. “I was joking,” he replied.

“Yeah, I know. So was I.” Lance rested his cheek on Keith’s head.

He hadn’t caught that.

And then, in almost a whisper, Lance said, “I missed you.”

“Yeah. I missed you too.”

Lance lowered his face, nuzzling the spot below his ear, warm breath lingering on his neck. Keith shivered. Pressed together like this, he could feel the tension course through Lance’s body, every shudder and minute spasm. He tried to stop himself from wanting, yet hesitated to pull away.

“May I kiss you?” Lance asked, whispering softly in his ear, long fingers at the back of his neck, carding through the escaped locks of his hair.

If he had been anyone else, the question would have ruined the moment.

They stared at each other in silence before Keith reached up, weaving through short brunette hair and pulling Lance down to the crush of his mouth. Keith slid his other hand beneath Lance’s jacket to hold him close, locking his fingers at the small of his back, just inside the waistband of his trousers. Eyes half-closed, tongue running along the seam of Lance’s mouth, Keith pushed through to meet him more than halfway. Keith let his hand slide around and down Lance’s cheek, savoring the taste of coffee and Pep-O-Mint Lifesavers.

When they came up for air, Keith licked his bottom lip. People were staring. A couple nearby walked hastily away.

Whatever. Keith was used to it.

He grabbed Lance by the hand. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

They strolled along the beach, hard-packed sand beneath their feet. He watched Lance tug his gloves off one finger at a time with his teeth, then shove them into a jacket pocket before taking off his shoes and socks. Lance strayed just within the water’s edge as he rolled up the hems of his trousers.

“Isn’t it cold?” Keith asked.

“A little, but it feels so good,” came the reply.

After almost a mile of silence, of holding hands and watching the sun sink lower toward the west, Lance spoke up again. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do.” Keith squeezed his fingers lightly but didn’t let go.

“You know, I thought you were going to call this off. Clean break, that sort of thing.”

“Wait, what? Why?” Keith asked, surprised. Lance was not often so melodramatic.

Keith followed his eyes to the horizon as he stared off into the distance. There was no differentiating the sky from the water. He couldn’t pick it out from between the low-slung clouds and the frothy sea-foam cresting the waves. There was likely an analogy in that, but he didn’t know what it was.

“Because you’re only looking for a good time, and I’m not.”

Those words stung. “Lance.” Keith stopped, the abruptness knocking Lance off-balance. “You’re my friend. Why would you even say that?”

Lance tried to recover, spinning around on his toes to meet Keith eye to eye. “It’s just-” He turned and started forward again, glancing down at their hands. “Just forget I said anything.”

Keith shifted his grip, lacing their fingers together. “You brought it up.”

“I can’t give you anything because there’s nothing you need from me.”

Keith stole a glance at him from the corners of his eyes. “Other than your really fine piece of ass, you mean?” His sarcasm came out more like a deflection, and in a way it was. Keith did not know what to say; how does one respond to this level of insecurity. Of course, there were things Lance had to offer: generosity, companionship. He was efficient, effective, and perpetually optimistic. Putting it that way, Lance was perhaps the most reliable person Keith knew. These truths, however, felt weak and stupid, cliched and too simple. He couldn’t imagine himself speaking the words. “Trust me, it’s a gift.”

Lance whipped his head back to Keith. “I’m serious!”

“So am I. You’ve seen my backside. At least you have one.”

“Okay, okay.” Lance conceded. “Point made, though I think Shiro has me beat.”

“Well, he’s also twice your size.”

Lance raised a brow. “That just means there’s more to enjoy and we’re _all_ well aware of how much you like to tap that.”

“And? We’re not talking about Shiro. We’re talking about you.”

Lance huffed through his nose, the hint of a smile toying with his lips. “You know this is what I like most about you?”

“This what?”

“This way you keep going even when it seems as if everything has fallen apart. I think your soul might have been forged in fire.”

Keith closed his eyes for just a moment, inhaling the salty breeze. “It’s hard. It’s really hard. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore, and I still can’t just let all my problems roll right off and pretend I’m not bothered by them like you do.” _Dammit, I wish I could._ Keith watched the water lap at Lance’s ankles, shifting the sand and silt around his toes as it pulled out and rushed back in again.

_I don’t know how to fix them either._

“It comes at a cost though.” Lance slowed his steps. “I spend so much energy putting on this,” he gestured to himself, his face and his body, “and I get so wrapped up in trying to be everything I’m expected to be that I wonder how much of the _me_ remaining is actually me. Sometimes I wonder if I might be stuck in some kind of emotional vacuum. And then _you_ remind me that I’m not.” The pause between them was a great rift that neither wanted to be first to cross.

“Come on-” Keith started, but Lance held his hand up for silence.

“The thing is, you’re still in love with Shiro.”

Keith drew his breath in sharply. “I’m-” This time he paid attention when his heart thrummed in his chest. Panic settling in with the words. He had been in love yes, emphasis on _had_ , but how he felt about Shiro now? This feeling was something else. It was acute. Like a second round of grieving, only in the poignant immediacy of the present, the dead had arisen.

Keith reminded himself that it was entirely possible to grieve the living, relationships, and emotions.

“Don’t even try to deny it. The look on your face when we left the gala said everything. I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid.” He stood in the water, and Keith allowed himself to be pulled forward into the trailing ebb of the wave, searching the vast blue depths of Lance’s eyes with his own. He was an entire continent away.

“Shiro’s not the same.”

“No. He’s not. But then neither are you. No one ever stays the same. You haven’t talked to him yet, have you.”

It was a statement, and Keith shook his head.

“You should. He’s a good man. I still believe that.” Lance hesitated before finding his resolve. “I’m not the right person for you, and while I’d like to be, I know I can’t fill that role. At least not the way we are now.”

Keith flinched at his words and nearly pulled away before Lance drew their hands to his lips, kissing Keith’s knuckles, running the tip of his tongue along each dip and rise as they continued along the strand.

It hadn’t occurred to Keith that there might be some intrinsic need at play here. At least that’s what he thought Lance was getting at. He tried to view it objectively. Lance had a pretty sound read on people.

What a great pair they made.

 

###  **ix.**

Shiro watched the scene play out from the parking deck, unable to wrench himself away. The campus lights flooded the manicured lawn, and Keith tugged Lance along behind him from the visitor parking lot. What was Keith even wearing? The two of them could have walked off a stark Esquire fashion spread in their perfectly tailored and complementary costumes. It was enough to make him gag.

Lance laughed and dug his heels into the green earth as he dropped the bag he was carrying and reached out to clasp his now free hand around a lamppost. He pulled Keith back toward him, locking his arms beneath that offensively red coat as they came together.

Why did Keith have to be so offensively red?

It was more sensory trait than physical attribute. His personality was just red.

From where he stood, Shiro could only see Lance’s sultry, lidded eyes as their faces merged. He held his breath and dared not move.

Too close. Far, far too close. He saw the bulge of Lance’s hand slide over the curve of Keith’s ass with practiced fluidity and stay there. Keith had one hand on Lance’s neck and the other, Shiro thought, was at the front of his trousers.

It was far too long before they separated. He wanted to puke.

For someone who kept telling himself he didn’t care, he sure was acting like he did. The feeling was something he couldn’t quite place and didn’t want to accept.

Why, of all people, did it have to be Lance? Lance had been after Keith for years. Was taking himself out of the equation all that was required for Keith to just go all in?

He knew his questions were silly. Lance wasn’t a one-night-stand, and Keith didn’t like being alone.

 

###  **x.**

The earlier conversation, which had been less of a dialogue and more of a therapy session for Lance, did not preclude the continuation of their evening. Cuban take-out had been a compromise between Lance’s reservation for two at a seafood lounge and Keith’s philistine yearning for the McDonald’s dollar menu. Lance said the food reminded him of his mother’s cooking.

They ate together, sitting on Keith’s bed because anywhere else was public and there was nowhere else to sit. Keith had made his bed that afternoon, and their jackets and sweaters lay piled beside them. He’d put some effort into the presentation of his small studio, relatively tidy even if it smelled faintly of stale nicotine and dirty laundry.

Bellies full and satisfied, they relaxed into each other with the ease of familiarity, Keith’s head in Lance’s lap. Long fingers ran through his thick, dark hair and along the shell of his ear.

It tickled. “Stop it.” Keith lazily brushed the hand away and sat up. He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he had to. “When do you have to leave?”

“I don’t.”

“I see.” He did not. If Lance didn’t eventually go home, he would kick him out. “So what’s the game plan.”

“Your house, your rules.”

“This isn’t Casa Kogane; it’s more like the Galran Garrison. Welcome to the barracks. I think I’ve shown you just about everything remotely interesting here.”

“Kitchen, gym, lounge, bedroom…” Lance picked at a cuticle. “But I can think of at least one other thing I wouldn’t mind seeing.”

“Oh yeah?”

Lance pointed a finger pistol playfully at Keith and kissed the air, one brow cocked high.

Shifted his gaze pointedly to his watch, Keith clocked each tick of a second. “I might be able to accommodate that request.” Keith slid off the bed, dragging Lance to his feet and kissing him firmly. Winded by the suddenness and shoved back first against the wall, his head knocked softly against the sheetrock.

Heat coursed down Keith’s torso to settle in his stomach and he tensed, rocking forward on the balls of his toes to press their hips together. He shifted and pulled back, a string of saliva stretching between their mouths.

It was a moment before Lance recovered. “Keith!”

His name had been uttered with more surprise than anything else. While he prided himself on that achievement; it was something greater than a debt owed, the difference between casual intimacy and fervent yearning, and Lance had already given him the green light.

Humming, he pulled hard on the front of Lance’s dress shirt until it gave, thread snapping and buttons scattering across the room. Letting it slip from Lance’s shoulders, Keith returned to the task at hand, trailing kisses along the curve of his jawline and down to the dip in his neck, gripping his bicep.

Keith pressed a palm up against the front of Lance’s cotton trousers, feeling the heat of his arousal and running a knuckle along the stiffening bulge. “You’re not usually this easy.” The corner of his mouth quirked up, amused.

“And you’re not usually so indulgent.”

He allowed himself to be stripped of the long sleeved shirt he’d worn underneath the sweater, stretching his arms above his head and pulling in his stomach to arch his back. The left sleeve caught on his bandages, and he nearly yanked it down in agitation before Lance eased it carefully off. He was powerless to do anything else, burns a long time to heal.

Lance’s hands pressed smoothly but firmly against his skin. Keith held him by the wrists, guiding seeking digits to the puckered ridges, cutting chasms, and knots of flesh in the scar tissue below his navel. Keith swallowed back the urge to change his mind and force Lance somewhere else.

“Are you-” Lance gasped.

“Shut up,” he murmured soft and low, raising himself on his toes again and pressing a finger to Lance’s lips. Keith unbuckled his belt and pulled open his chinos in a swift motion, one-handed. Gliding a palm down the center of Lance’s abdomen, Keith drifted around his belly and over the thin fabric of his briefs.

“Mermaids don’t need pants.” Keith spoke between kisses, tongue in the hollow between Lance’s clavicles. Stomach muscles clenched as Keith ran heavy fingers back up over Lance’s scrotum and the rise of his cock, gauging the growing hardness and feeling himself stir in response.

Moaning, Lance whispered back, “Neither does a firebomb.” He shifted his weight in ever languid elegance, letting his trousers fall to his ankles, stepping out, and shoving them aside with a foot as he reached for Keith.

Keith grunted assistance, standing on his pant legs and using his toes to free his ankles. Focused on pushing the elastic down from Lance’s hips, Keith dragged deft fingertips along his shaft once free. Spitting into his hand a few times, he reached again for Lance’s dick, running his thumb around the head, massaging his foreskin, and then down along the thick vein, wetting the length before beginning to slowly pump.

Lance embodied a certain plasticity. While neither soft nor particularly malleable, he wasn’t sharp and taut either. His boyish figure, with his slender torso and narrow hips, spoke volumes of youthful verve. Keith noted the perspiration glistening across Lance’s shoulders as he leaned in, keeping his breath as slow and measured as he could to draw this out. He licked Lance’s lips, extending the invitation, free hand at his chest.

Lance stalled, eyes flitting around the room and blinking several times before squeezing them tight, a short gasp escaping his lungs.

“Hey,” Keith reached up to cup his cheek. “You all right?”

Nodding and glassy-eyed, Lance dragged his fingertips along Keith’s trail of downy hair from navel to bush before spitting several times into his hand to return the favor.

Keith drew his breath in sharply at the touch, hissing between his teeth.

_About time._

Gently, Lance slid his other hand down along Keith’s back and over the curve of his ass. He pulled Keith close, taking both of their dicks in hand, long fingers enclosing them, their coming together like the rocking of the sea.

“Lance,” Keith panted, the name at once a realization and a rationalization.

Desire wasn’t complicated, but people always were.

It should have been a prayer.

A soft moan escaped his lips, and he pulled Lance’s head down toward him, planting wet kisses on that smoothly sculpted face. Keith focused on a point somewhere past reality as he tried to keep himself from climaxing first. He craved this, the helplessness he felt at the mercy of his own humanity, while at the same time in complete control of a situation he had created. The world faded away as his vision blurred through their rutting. With unbearable, shuddering transcendence, warmth spread through him and streams of white cream painted their chests nearly simultaneously.

Eyes lowered, Keith swept a finger through the mess across Lance’s breast as he was released and wiped it across his own lip before tasting the bitter saltiness of their union. Bending to lick it from his partner, he dragged his tongue over the hills and valleys of Lance’s form. Keith’s hands drifted around his svelte waist and down his ass, fingers deep in the split of his crack. Finding a nipple, he encircled it with his mouth, flicking his tongue over the peak, before Lance reached out to stop him, lifting his chin and reaching behind for his hand.

“Let’s finish this in the shower.”

Keith pushed their clothes out of the way with his feet to clear a pathway the few steps to the bathroom, leading Lance ceremoniously behind him.

Beneath the hot spray, they washed each other and went again. Tears leaked out at the corners of Lance’s eyes were rinsed away with all evidence of their shame.

He always cried, and Keith always pretended not to notice.

Later, after opening the window to relieve the stuffy air, they curled up together on the bed, sharing the silence.

Just the other night, he had decided to resolve whatever this was he had with Lance, but instead here they were, having ended up in his bed. Keith grabbed his laptop off the nightstand, feeling the need to occupy his mind. He decided to watch _Labyrinth_ after Lance declared no preference and started the movie, setting the computer across his hips. Like _The Lost Boys_ and _The Last Starfighter_ , it was one of those films intrinsic to the formative narrative of his adolescence. Keith had rented and watched it repeatedly on VHS, primarily for the captivating presence of David Bowie’s tights and the sheer amount of screen time devoted to the contents thereof. The Goblin King Jareth had been his first crush, drawn seemingly inexplicably to the over-the-top, brazen, and glamorous masculinity.

_No mystery there, Keith. David Bowie at any age is hot._

Hauling the covers around them, Keith surrendered his taboo and shifted to fit Lance’s head into the crook of his shoulder.

“You’re staying?” Lance whispered.

“Where am I going to go?” came his surly reply.

Lance’s hand slid over his stomach, one leg entwined with his. They stayed like that in each other’s comfort, drifting in and out of consciousness.

At exactly eighty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds into the movie, the clatter of footsteps on stone goaded Keith from a dull stare to wakefulness. This was the best part, the final confrontation with the Goblin King. Drumbeats rang in his head.

“ _Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you_ ,” He knew each word of the song by heart, uttering them just under his breath, feeling the blood rush out of his lips. Keith swept his hand out before him, toward the ceiling as he and the Goblin King Jareth sang. “ _I move the stars for no one._ ”

Nausea overwhelmed him, each tink of the glass memory globe hitting a sharp note as it bounced along the steps of infinity through the Escheresque landscape, and he filled with the dread of dawning comprehension. This was inescapably _him_ as if years of fantasizing had failed to prepare him for it.

“ _Your eyes can be so cruel. Just as I can be so cruel.”_

Shiro. Not Lance, with whom he was comfortably tucked away.

Shiro.

“ _Live without the sunlight, Love without your heartbeat._ ”

Every line dragged him with increasing exposure, called out by a song in a children’s movie about manipulation and self-realization. His throat had seized up, and he couldn’t swallow the lump at the back of his dry tongue, but he blinked back the welling hurt, shuddering.

“ _I can’t live within you._ ”

This was as if a dream, and he’d woken up too soon before all the trappings of yesterday could be shed and discarded.

“I gave everything.” Keith murmured to no one, expecting Lance to be asleep.

He started when he heard a reply.

“Shh.” Lance shifted, so they were face to face, sliding his fingers over Keith’s lips. “I know.”

“There’s nothing left.” He recognized it as a particular brand of defeat that coupled with hopelessness. It was very much like when his parents had died, and he’d become a ward of the state, or even later when he had been in the hospital. Months he’d been confined to a bed, pumped full of antibiotics and leaking pus from his abdomen daily through medical drains, struggling to find any sort of meaning in the value of his own meager existence.

“You’ve got to try. Again and again, until you succeed or die trying. At least then the effort won’t have been wasted.”

He wasn’t listening. “What’s wrong with me?” Great invisible hands had wrapped themselves around his lungs, squeezing, and he struggled to breathe. Keith thought his heart might have cleaved in two.

Lance expelled a ragged sigh.

Keith buried his head in his pillow and allowed himself to be held until exhaustion overcame and sleep descended upon them.

In the morning, Keith was the first to crack open his eyes; Lance’s arms wrapped around him in uncharacteristically awkward entanglement, chin resting on the top of his head. Motes flitted through filtered light from the window glass, and he studied them for a time, following the specular trails through the beams until he remembered the Dropbox notice from Pidge. He carefully extracted just enough of himself to be able to reach his laptop and prop himself up. Lance grunted and repositioned himself in semiconscious compliance.

Keith turned the volume down out of courtesy. After downloading the file and breaking the encryption, he clicked play. _Cryptid Compilation Part 2: Not of this Earth!_ began with a weird clip of something that looked like a kitchen-made UFO landing video. Cute, but what was the point? The glistening steel top of a salt shaker formed the bubble of an alien cockpit, the body of the flying saucer an old pot lid, and the whole make-shift craft suspended over something boiling on the stove below, curls of gray smoke mingling with the steam. The camera panned to the right and closed in on a hand holding an expertly rolled joint. The astrological symbol for Earth was delicately inked right in the thenar space between the thumb and forefinger. He glanced down at his hands, resting on the keyboard, then back to the screen as if he needed to double check. It was his definitely his.

And then he remembered, watching the scene unfold before him.

The camera moved up along his arm to his face, as he expelled the smoke through his nose. The Keith on the screen held his other hand in front of his face as if to shield himself from recognition. “No Shiro. Not on me!” He laughed and shut his eyes, pushing the hair off his forehead back into the close fade of his undercut. It was a good haircut, but the upkeep had been torture. “I don’t want this on camera!”

He stood in their kitchen, the way it had been before Hunk had doubled the size and upgraded the appliances.

“Really? Keith, please. It’s legal as of… What time did they announce it, Shiro?” Pidge’s voice echoed from across the condo.

“Uh… 4:20 this afternoon?”

Screen Keith reached forward and disappeared for several long moments before the camera jostled, and he backed up again into view. “Weak, Shiro.” He turned toward Pidge’s voice, hand falling away. “He doesn’t know that shit. It was posted to the L. A. Times website at exactly 11:45 pm.”

She snickered. “I just wanted to see you do that, Keith.”

Pidge’s ‘that’ had something to do with his mouth and Shiro.

Hunk’s voice came from the opposite direction, and Screen Keith turned again to listen, “Nothing’s ever exactly on the forty-five anymore. I call bull.”

“I have forty-fives,” Screen Keith replied, genuinely confused.

Watching himself like this was embarrassing.

“Yeah, and you also have Betamax,” Pidge retorted.

“I-” Screen Keith started, but was distracted by the descent of the spaceship crashing into the back of his head, a slender hand holding a phone bumped into his shoulder. “It’s definitely forty-five, Hunk,” Lance called out, double checking Screen Keith’s statement as he descended from the counter. Shiro shifted the camera angle to accommodate his jump to the floor. He swayed on his feet into Screen Keith. “You’re in my way,” he said, patting the shoulder beside him

“Don’t touch me.” Screen Keith shoved him gently, but he tottered forward in drunken inelegance. “Dammit!” Grabbing Lance’s arm, Screen Keith pulled him back to standing. Lance pretended to sober up, dusting off his jeans, setting aside the makeshift spaceship, and draping his arm around Screen Keith’s shoulders.

“Do you gentlemen have anything to say on this momentous occasion?” Shiro inquired, focusing on Screen Keith once again, still trying weakly to hide, spliff between his fingers.

“What’s momentous?” He dropped the hand from his face and blinked at the camera, taking a long drag. “Doesn’t change anything for me. I get mine from him.” He jerked his thumb toward Lance, who giggled in response, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

“Way to be a fun ender, Kogane.” Lance scrunched down and leaned his head on Screen Keith’s shoulder, batting his eyes. “You’re pretty comfy, you know that?”

“All good things end eventually.” He glared at Lance, mouth turning down in a frown as he dropped that shoulder. Lance staggered back into the countertop.

“Get you stoned, and you go all metaphorical.” Lance bounced back, pressing his forehead into Screen Keith’s neck.

Screen Keith shoved him off. “You’re not using that word correctly.”

This time he let Lance go; the soft thud was barely perceptible as Lance’s body snaked down to the ground. “Hey!”

“Philosophically metaphysical,” Pidge shouted from wherever she was.

Shiro cleared his throat. “All good things?”

Screen Keith nodded solemnly.

The camera closed in, his face to his eye, finally becoming a violet blur as Shiro whispered, “Then we’d better make good on those good things before they’re gone.”

The screen went black. Was that it? Where had Pidge scrounged this up? He’d thought that phone had been destroyed… along with Shiro. The thought of Pidge hacking Apple’s cloud for the sole purpose of finding these recordings of Shiro’s memories made him laugh aloud.

“So, do I have your attention now?” Pidge’s voice came crisp and clear through his speakers.

He raised a brow and stared at the blank screen. Of course, Pidge would have this clip. What was she getting at?

“No?” Pidge asked. “Then how about this?”

It was another video from that same night. Screen Keith took a long, final swig of his beer, the bottle loosely captured between his thumb and forefinger, a dangerously swaying pendulum. He set the bottle on the counter with a rough clank, another addition to the ever-expanding echelons of the beer bottle militia for recycling. He slid it across the granite with his finger until it was carefully aligned with the others of its arbitrary rank. Popping his joint between his lips, he brushed the hair off his forehead, but it fell right back, and he ran his fingers through it again before noticing Shiro with the camera.

“Oh, you meant now?” Screen Keith asked speaking through his smoke.

“Yeah. Right now.” From the thick slur of his words, Shiro was more than a little tipsy.

Screen Keith nodded and held out his hand for silence, head bowed to hide his amusement and attempting to smother his own laughter. Exhaling the smoke through his nose, he took the joint from his mouth, nearly done anyway. He ran his tongue over his teeth.

“For posterity,” he managed to get out with forced seriousness, squaring his shoulders and standing up straight.

“For posterity,” Shiro repeated, slowly enunciating each word in affirmation.

Screen Keith fixed his eyes intently on the camera and began, “My name is Keith Akira Kogane. Uh, this is what I look like.” He gestured to himself. “I weigh 135 lbs, my blood type is O negative, and I’m a little bit taller than Bruce Lee.”

“No, you aren’t!” Pidge yelled from off-camera.

“Yes, I am! By exactly half an inch!”

“You’re deluding yourself.”

Screen Keith shook his head and continued. “I think I was born in 1984, but I don’t know my birthday. The date on my birth certificate was fabricated by the social worker on my case and a sponsoring midwife when I entered the foster care program after the deaths of my parents. You know, once it had been proven beyond reasonable doubt that I hadn’t been kidnapped as an infant. You think I’m joking? I’m not. My father was the American born and only son of Japanese immigrants who settled in San Francisco before World War II,” He held two fingers out in a ‘V’ up close to the screen, just in case it couldn’t be seen. He inhaled deeply taking one last drag before retiring the roach to one of the bottles behind him. “After Pearl Harbor, they were removed to the Amache, Colorado internment camp with my newborn father. My mother was an infant when her parents’ spaceship crash landed on June 14, 1947, near Corona, New Mexico. The craft was collected by the Roswell Army Airfield-”

The screen cut to black again and Pidge’s voice was back, “See, Keith, I don’t think you were making any of that shit up, and it’s not so much as everything checking out, but nothing not checking out, you know? Yeah, yeah, same thing, slightly different concept. I bet you’re interested now. You probably want to know what else I have, don’t you?” She stopped briefly. “Good, because I want you to watch the following very, very carefully, okay? Watch it several times if you have to. You can thank me later. Even better, let’s have a chat over a cup of coffee. Your treat.”

He glanced over at Lance, most likely feigning sleep beside him, but Keith figured it didn’t matter and kept watching.

The next scene began with a view of Zarkon’s office where Shiro was wheeled in by the head of security. Sendak boffed the side of his head once, then shrugged when he didn’t move and sauntered off to lean beside the door, legs crossed and arms folded over his chest.

Shiro stir, but all he could manage was to shift the lean of his head from right to left.

Keith wondered why that was, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it before Pidge began speaking, apparently filling in for Zarkon with an eerily abrasive false baritone that he could only describe as a metalcore deathgrowl.

He watched the clip three times. Zarkon was a skillful negotiator and whatever Shiro was being doped with appeared to cloud judgment and impair reasoning. None of this surprised him, but actually seeing Shiro’s immediate distress and inability to process what was happening incited in Keith a sort of smoldering irascible flame and pulled at his heartstrings. No wonder Shiro had been so _off_. If what he saw here was real, and he didn’t see any good reason for it not to be, it constituted a declaration of war.

Galran Technologies would burn.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/kittymaru/36221765546/in/dateposted-public/)

 

###  **xi.**

**To:** Allura Alforse

**From:** K. Pidge Holt

**Subject:** FINAL COUNTDOWN!

 

As per security protocol (Debriefing and Reporting Procedures for Subordinate Officers and Contractors 3.2.1.1), code names are used throughout to protect the guilty.

 

Note: Agent Honey Pot successfully bugged the kitchen, gym, second-floor lounge, and three additional hallway locations. See attachment gtmap.jpg. May attempt a second infiltration, providing security activity on campus remains low.

 

 

**February 24; 06:43; Main Hallway 1-A, East Entrance and Elevator Lobby N1**

 

Prime Asset Pop-Tart notably absented himself from morning victuals and was recorded exiting his room a full forty-five minutes after his usual departure time, heading toward the kitchen. Surveillance Subject Trash Fire left the kitchen around the same time, after partaking of breakfast with the security detail. Both parties moved toward an inevitable encounter, neither acknowledging the presence of the other or diverting paths. Pop-Tart’s left arm and Trash Fire’s left shoulder impacted as they passed through the chokepoint of the doorway between the hall and elevator lobby.

 

See attachment maydayabort.jpg

 

No visual or audible exchange of words. No sparks.

 

 

**February 26; 07:36; Elevator Lobby N1, North Building, Car 2**

 

Pop-Tart missed breakfast for the third day in a row and was once again seen leaving his room at the end of the usual meal time. This behavior is presumed to be intentional and appears to reflect a desire to avoid contact with Trash Fire.

 

Trash Fire maintains a regular meal schedule. He ate his breakfast in the kitchen. Afterward, he prepared a fresh cup of coffee with milk and sugar.

 

Fun Fact: Trash Fire only takes his coffee black.

 

Bonus Fun Fact: Pop-Tart prefers a very specific recipe of 3 teaspoons sugar, a quarter cup of 2% organic milk, and 10 oz coffee.

 

Trash Fire brought the mug with him to Elevator Lobby N1, pressed the call button and waited. When the door opened, Pop-Tart stepped out and the two subjects engaged in conversation.

 

See attachment omgtheymadeeyecontact.jpg

 

Trash Fire displayed demonstrably aggressive body language, while Pop-Tart’s posture evidenced distress throughout the duration of the confrontation. Facial expressions are not visible in the available footage.

 

After a dismissive gesture, Trash Fire intentionally dropped the mug, shattering it and splattering coffee on Pop-Tart’s pant legs before walking away.

 

See attachment hairtossdropitlikeitshot.gif

 

Pop-Tart returned to the elevator and punched his prosthetic hand through the back of the car.

 

See attachment PopTartflipshit.jpg

 

That elevator remains in service.

 

 

**February 27; 13:16; East Dormitory, 1 st Floor, Room 117**

 

Prime Asset Pop-Tart returned to his room after a checkup at the medical bay. The subject received two injections of an unidentified substance, after which he appeared lethargic, dazed, and unbalanced.

 

Trash Fire had been waiting outside Pop-Tart’s room for c. 35 min., and watching Pop-Tart approach, managed to catch him under the arm before he careened into the door frame.

 

See attachment omfgtheytouched.jpg

 

The following dialogue was recorded:

 

Trash Fire (TF): [redacted]! You okay?

Pop-Tart (PT): Fine.

TF: You don’t look fine.

PT: I was going to lie down.

TF: What did they give you?

PT: Huh?

 

Still supporting him, Trash Fire pulled Pop-Tart’s left arm around for a better view; his sleeve was rolled up, and cotton had been taped over the injection site below his elbow. Zoom in on this frame reveals several partially healed round marks on Pop-Tart’s arm. Based on comparison to images from open-access medical databases, these are likely from IV drips.

 

See attachments tfmakesangryface.jpg and trackmarkscomp.jpg

 

PT: I- I don’t- [redacted], I’ve got to lie down.

TF: [redacted]!

 

Trash Fire leaned in farther as Pap-Tart’s knees buckled. No further intelligible audio or visual on their faces. Assisted Pop-Tart with opening apartment door and helped him inside before leaving.

 

 

**February 28; 15:31; Employee Lounge, 2 nd Floor**

 

The security department held a birthday celebration for Pop-Tart.

 

See attachment unicornpartyhats.jpg

 

Trash Fire conspicuously absent.

 

 

**March 01; 06:02; Kitchen**

 

Trash fire had been cooking since c. 04:00. The resulting effort yielded a single plate of questionable fare composed of runny scrambled eggs, burned bacon, shriveled sausage, under-toasted bread, and very blond hash browns. This was set at the table with condiments, coffee, and a plastic party cup of fresh squeezed orange juice.

 

He left a handmade card standing beside the masterpiece.

 

See attachment bdaybrekkie.jpg

 

Pop-Tart entered as Trash Fire was leaving. No verbal exchange.

 

See attachment tendershouldertouch.jpg

 

Fun fact: Pop-Tart’s birthday is February 29. Trash Fire has been known to celebrate it with him on the stroke of midnight between February 28 and March 1. Except for last year, which happened to be a leap year. Last year, they spent the entire day in Trash Fire’s bedroom.

 

Pop-Tart spent several minutes alone with his head on the table next to the plate. Audio muffled and unintelligible.

 

See attachment probablyrats.jpg

 

 

**March 01; 23:22; East Dormitory, 3 rd Floor, Room 314**

 

Pop-Tart spent c. 45 min. camped on the floor beside Trash Fire’s door with his ear pressed against the wall. Audio from inside the room was detected from the hall and identified as electric guitar and vocals. Due to technological limitations, these recordings could not be clarified.

 

Fun Fact: Trash Fire learned to play guitar at thirteen, having been grounded for two weeks in the middle of the summer and confined to his room for an offense that remains unknown.

 

See attachment littlethings.jpg

 

 

**March 02; 19:56; Kitchen**

 

Background (condensed): Trivia night at Galran Technologies is a small affair that takes place in the kitchen instead of the lounge. This is likely due to the relative vicinity of food. The teams rotate partners, and as there are usually seven players, there will almost always be three teams with one proctor. They use _Trivial Pursuit_ decks, some of which date from the late 1970s/early 1980s, and scores are recorded on a gridded whiteboard from week to week. The prize remains unknown, as there does not appear to be any exchange of currency or goods either before or after gaming sessions.

 

Two important points of interest were observed.

 

First, one member of the security staff, the one usually responsible for bell duty, is in possession of a dagger very similar to the one owned by Trash Fire. He was observed using it to slice cheese and salami.

 

See attachments bellboywithdagger.jpg and knivescomp.jpg

 

Second, Trash Fire and Pop-Tart were teamed up for Round 3. Shortly after commencement, Trash Fire moved his chair several inches away from Pop-Tart. After several more minutes, Trash fire excused himself and retired to his room.

Cross-examination of the video footage revealed Pop-Tart’s and Trash Fire’s adjacent hands beneath the table.

 

See attachment itseclectic.jpg

 

Boogie woogie, woogie.

 

 

**March 03; 11:28; Gym**

Fun fact: Trash Fire can dead bench significantly more weight than Pop-Tart, even more if he has to stare at all those sprinkles and frosting in the gym. For some species, this might be interpreted as a courtship ritual.

-

 

###  **xii.**

Shiro’s lips were moving, words were coming out, but Keith’s brain refused to process any of it. Babble, babble, blah, blah. He was still counting reps on the bench press and listening to Marc Bolan croon about tripping and gliding across the trembling plain. Sitting up and pulling out his earbuds, he looked up at Shiro, put-together as usual, with his compression pants, tightly fitted tank, and new black and silver trainers.

“Come again?”

“Why are you here? Really.”

Shiro didn’t deserve the answer, especially not after the previous evening. Even if it had been purely automatic, held over from years of comfortable closeness and few inhibitions, the touch had startled him. He had been sitting cross-legged on the seat of the chair when Shiro had reached over and placed his warm palm on Keith’s thigh, sliding it down from groin to knee. Keith had been forced to excuse himself if only to prevent an inevitable outburst. Shiro had quickly pulled away, pretending like nothing had happened, that neither had felt the sharp shock of electricity between them, everything suppressed except the pink flush across his nose through the fading scar.

Keith decided to give him the answer anyway. “Knowledge or death.”

Shiro blinked.

Keith raised his brows, waiting for a response or a reaction.

“That’s some dark angst even for you.” Shiro shifted on his feet.

“I thought you’d appreciate it.” He stood up and lunged, stretching his legs now. After nearly three weeks, it was starting to feel good to be back into a real workout routine. His body was more compliant, he didn’t feel quite so sluggish, and most of the time he was sleeping through the night again.

That was probably the biggest difference. There was still that emptiness beside him that couldn’t quite be filled. Lance couldn’t fill it, though he was a nice compliment. Keith had given away half his heart, and without full ownership, he wasn’t able to do much with the rest.

He probably should have sought professional help.

What would a therapist have told him anyway? To afford himself some compassion? But it felt like self-pity, and that accomplished nothing. He’d go from spells where he was the bone-dry desert he’d known as a child, with so much building heat and pressure deep down within he might have been made rich on diamonds, to those times where he was the salty liquid sea. When he seeped through to the molten iron heart of that very same earth, the water evaporated with a hiss and turned the core to rust.

Diamonds and rust. Like memories.

What a strange combination.

Shiro was still there. “Hey, Keith?”

“Yes?”

“What are you looking for, exactly?” Shiro clenched his jaw.

Keith made him wait while pulling off his lifting gloves, still holding the lunge. “You.” There it was, his heart on the table, ready for dissection, or at least some serious poking and prodding. He swapped legs.

Shiro scoffed and laughed, a sardonic utterance as he looked away. “But aren’t you and Lance-”

Not this again. He was not going to have this discussion a second time. “You really don’t get it, do you? Come on.” He picked up his towel and mopped the back of his neck and brow before draping it over his head. “Let’s spar.”

“Are we talking Keith sparring, with fists and knees and feet or-”

“Knives. You forgot knives.”

“Right. Knives. Or...?”

“Keith sparring.” Any other kind wasn’t very fun.

“I’d rather not.”

“You’re probably right.” He was disappointed by the response, but there was wisdom in Shiro’s choice.

The renegade in Keith was here out of spite, but that only took him so far. What he had ultimately intended was to find some closure to this travesty of a train-wrecked relationship. It wasn’t enough to just accept it.

“Well, I need to hit something.” Keith pointed to the heavy bag in the corner of the room. “Come. Talk to me.” He slung his sack over his shoulder and sifted through the contents as he made his way purposefully across the floor.

Shiro walked beside him, matching his stride with easy confidence. He glistened with perspiration, so indomitably virile like this, and Keith had to keep himself focused so as to not think too much about the physicality of the man. He found his hand wraps and started winding the tape. Shiro was everything he was not, and that was probably a large part of his attraction. The stench of him practically oozed out of his pores and dripped from every orifice. It was just there, in the way he bared his chest, the soft curve of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, his trim waist, the planes of his face, his height. He reeked of masculinity, and Keith was infatuated with it, the smell, the taste. Especially the taste.

The powers that be had offered a modicum of consolation when it had thrown him at Shiro.

_All good things end eventually._

He finished wrapping his other hand, over the inconvenient bandage on his wrist before dumping his things into a corner. He shook his hands out, forcing his joints to loosen up. Stepping into position in front of the bag and taking a deep breath to center himself, he cut loose.

“Talk.”

Shiro found his voice as Keith’s fist slammed into the bag. “Everything in my head is a haze. Some of it is concrete, and I can make out exactly what’s going on, and then there’s some of it that’s worse than the L.A. smog that never clears and hangs below the clouds for days on end. The truth is, I don’t know what happened after the explosion. My watch stopped, and I hadn’t been paying attention.” He extended his hand.

Keith paused and stepped back, eyeing the proffered palm with some suspicion. If a shred of faith was required, he’d comply at least for now, and resigned, gave him his hand. He allowed it to be brought up to Shiro’s forehead, fingers skirting over the slight lump in the scalp beneath the streak of fine, white hair. “Feel that? Sometimes, I try to recall what happened and I can’t tell if I’m making things up or reliving them as they were, or if I even have the order of events correct in my memory. All I could see for so long was abandonment; that’s what it sounded like in my head. I called your name, and you weren’t there.”

“Shiro, you were at the end of the lab that exploded first.” That was a fact. He knew a lot of facts. In fact, he could spout facts all day. His hand was still gripped in Shiro’s. He snatched it back.

_Ready, re-center. Hit._

“I know. And when I came to again, it was like I was looking through-”

“If you had been listening, you’d have known exactly where I was and what I was doing. Perhaps you should ask yourself instead, what were _you_ doing? Because that’s what I still can’t figure out. What were you doing and who were you doing it for?” _Two. Three. Four. Breathe._

As soon as he’d said it, he wished he had kept the words to himself. He was so afraid of alienating Shiro, who was as desperately trying to reach him as he was desperately wanting to be reached. Gravity and a stabilizing orbit only served to prolong the agony. Keith didn’t want to bring up the conversations with Zarkon, the strange injections, or how Shiro had acted after his checkup at the clinic. He watched Shiro battle it out internally, suspicion versus Keith’s continuous struggle to keep himself in check. Which would Shiro decide?

He sighed. “Look, Shiro. I don’t know what’s going on upstairs, but I’m here now. I can’t guarantee I will be later or tomorrow or anytime after that.” Keith couldn’t do this anymore. He grabbed his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder before heading out. “Don’t give yourself an aneurysm while you process that.”

Keith was about ready to sublimate, expression incendiary. He started toward the exit.

“Me,” Shiro called after him. “I was doing it for me.”

He stopped in his tracks, hand on the door. Now they were getting somewhere.

 

###  **xiii.**

Keith unwound his hand wraps on the way up to his room and, once inside, carefully peeled off the dressing over his burn and peeled off his sweat-soaked t-shirt. He was probably being paranoid, but he checked for signs of entry and tampering with the lock and bolt before falling backward onto his bed. He’d changed the locks when he moved in and had swept for bugs several times since.

Shiro trailed after him, joining him on the bed. He traced a scar on Keith’s shoulder joint, outlining the edge with his fingertip, then pressing down into the quarter-sized crater with the pad of his index finger. “This one is new.”

There was no other place to finish this conversation, yet although he had invited Shiro in, he had certainly not given the okay to sit on his bed, nor permission to touch him. Still, Keith was determined to control himself, especially here in his own space, like some sort of repression litmus test.

“No. Remember that job last year in Aliso Viejo? Where I got _shot_?” Classic case of wrong place, wrong time, Shiro being dumb, take one for the team. Shiro was always being dumb.

Shiro groaned, “Ugh. Yeah, don’t remind me.” Almost normal. They were having an almost normal conversation if talking about taking a bullet while on a job of a clandestine nature could be described that way. “I mean this tattoo,” Shiro continued. He traced the outline and axis of each planet from the scar, transformed into Jupiter, forward to Mercury just above his bicep and then back over to Neptune and finally, Pluto tucked beneath Keith’s collarbone with its tiny little dots for moons. “Charon, Styx, Hydra, Nix, and,” he tapped his finger on it soundly, “Kerberos.”

Keith kept himself perfectly still; he didn’t feel like playing this game. “I’ve had it a couple months.” It was one more memory tagged as a badge of honor emblazoned on his flesh. The idea of covering his scars this way had come to him months past his last surgery following the motorcycle accident. The rupture in his colon had been so bad, he’d had to deal with a temporary stoma for half a year in addition to a drain from the persistent infection. It had been nothing pleasant to look at once it was healed, a new geography in angry red tracked across his abdomen.

He folded his hands protectively over that part of him.

Retrospectively at least, he was still here. Although _here_ wasn’t exactly a place he wanted to be at the moment.

Shiro grunted. “Well, I hadn’t seen it.”

“Not my fault.” He glanced at the healing burn perfectly matching Shiro’s grip around his wrist. Briefly, he wondered what it would look like when the crusting scabs were gone. He’d still have a long time to think about what to ink there, though perhaps it would be better to leave that one alone, a brutal reminder.

“That’s not fair, Keith.” It was almost as if Shiro knew what he was thinking.

“No, it isn’t, but that’s the way it is.” Keith glanced over at Shiro. This was beginning to get too familiar. “Stop touching me.” He pushed Shiro’s hand away. At least Shiro had not tried to touch him with that prosthetic.

Keith shivered involuntarily as Shiro eased down beside him, their shoulders brushing unexpectedly. He cursed himself for that.

_I’m not scared. Yeah, Keith, you just keep telling yourself that._

Shiro sighed, a soft expulsion of air through his nose. He scooted away. “You know, I just wanted out?” He looked over at Keith.

“Well, that hasn’t worked out particularly well for you, now has it?” Keith drew his hands up, combed his fingers through his hair and crossed his arms behind his head.

“Honestly? I thought I knew what I wanted, and it turned out I was wrong.”

Keith didn’t look at him, but he could wait patiently for a little while at least. Actually, he couldn’t, but putting on a mask of dull ennui made it look like he could, and that usually sped things up.

“I thought that if I could not only get the production mechanism but the sample as well, that would be enough. I actually had Allura on another frequency. I’d turned off everything else and was going after that sample. I almost had it too...”

_“...going after that sample.”_ The nickname the chemical engineers were using in the labs was supposedly “Dark Quintessence.”

Keith groaned inwardly, wondering what strange possession had overtaken Shiro’s usual good sense. Watching Shiro carefully now, Keith gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep himself from interrupting until the taste of salt and metal burst and spilled onto his tongue.

“I- you know.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“It just gripped me; the recurring thought that if I didn’t get out right then, either I never would and I would die having wasted away through the prime of my life, or I would lose everything I cared about and still die having spent it all. I wanted what I had but without that lingering static fear in the background. What if something happened to-” He stopped, reconsidering his words, “Could I have the freedom to just wake up in the morning and not pretend that being with someone is a passing fancy because it has to be the job that comes first? It’s always the mission. I don’t even know why I’m lying here talking to you like this. I don’t think you trust me anymore.”

_Give me a reason why I should._ Keith turned his head toward Shiro, his eyes growing a little wider and his shoulders lifting slightly before relaxing again. He shifted and scratched his navel, trapping a tuft of lint beneath his nail and extracting it. He gnawed it out with his teeth then tucked his hand back behind his head.

Shiro blinked and swallowed hard. “I wanted to go away somewhere together. Where we wouldn’t have to do this anymore. Where we could just _be_.”

“That sure is some naive idealism right there. One might also call that ‘escapist.’” The acidity of the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“You could use some of it, I think.”

“Not a chance. And don’t even think about trying to infect me. My vaccinations are up to date.” His eyes darted toward Shiro, still not convinced he had heard correctly. “And what about your parents? I don’t suppose they were going to give you their blessing to go running off with, how did your father put it? ‘Some fag you picked up off the side of the road.’”

“Keith, this wasn’t about my parents.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that? Were you really so willing to give that up? Do you remember when I went home with you that one time for Thanksgiving? Your dad knew, Shiro. He said that to my face.”

“It’s not like I told them-”

“Yes, you did. I was standing right there when you told your mom you literally found me on the side of the road and called 911-”

“-and it’s not like you advertize, so I don’t know how he could have known.”

Keith clenched his jaw tight.

_It’s the way you look at me like you are right now, I’m sure I’ve looked that way at you. It’s in the way we sit when we’re together and the casual closeness of our bodies. It’s the charge I feel when you touch me, the quickening of my pulse when you speak my name._

“Besides,” Shiro continued, “it’s not up to anyone but me to define my happiness.”

Keith rolled over onto his stomach, reminding himself to stay calm. It hadn’t occurred to him that Shiro really wanted that sort of permanence. Ever.

He propped himself up on his elbows and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “So, when were you going to tell me?” He didn’t know what else to say.

“I wasn’t going to tell you anything; I was going to ask.”

He had thought he would have been free of this feeling, but the heaviness in his chest told him otherwise. The absence had triggered runaway fusion in his very core, the energy alone capable of tearing him apart.

He felt sick.

Shiro was the one who made him question everything. Everything he knew about himself and everything he thought he knew about love. Shiro, over whom the universe had folded time and unwound space.

All of it for him, and he didn’t know what to do.

Collide or collapse?


	3. We've Already Paid

###  **i.**

Keith lay perfectly still in the darkness, his breathing shallow and his eyes closed. A noise had woken him up. He waited, listening. Somewhere the pipes knocked from within the walls. The wind blew a smattering of raindrops in a harsh cascade against the side of the building, and the window glass shook in its creaking frame. Every contraction and expansion of his heart was a hand squeezing and releasing again and again. Adrenaline pulsed through to the tips of his fingers, and the veins stood out on the backs of his hands, his skin taut with tension.

Cautiously, he cracked his lids, unable to decide if he was drowning in the velvet midnight or floating through it. He gripped the handle of his dagger, wedged between the mattress and boxspring, and pulled it out. Slowly drawing the blade up to his chest, he heard it again. Each footfall connected to the linoleum tile of the dormitory hallway with the slight squeak of rubber-soled sneakers, audible despite the weather. The stride was long but measured, and it stopped outside his room.

_Trust no one. Haha sure._

A knuckle rapped twice on his door. Keith reached for his phone and checked the time; it was just after three a.m.. Tossing away the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, arching his back as he yawned, pressing one palm and the guard of his knife against his hips. Keith cracked his neck, shimmied into the first pair of pants he stumbled over, then shambled toward the door.

“Shiro?” He spoke in a hushed tone, the side of his face pressed up against the doorframe. It was definitely Shiro’s signature call, the other half of “shave and a haircut.”

“Yes,” came the whispered reply.

Still clutching his dagger, Keith slid out the chain, unlocked the latch, turned the bolt, and opened the door. Just as expected, there stood Shiro, in sweats and a hoodie, haloed by the crimson aura of the emergency light, the glow awash across the waxed floor, a lake of red reflected beneath his feet. With an indistinct sigh, Keith pushed the door open wide with his fingertips and, beckoning, bade Shiro enter.

Shutting the door after him, Keith asked, “What’s so important that you absolutely needed to tell me at this hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided to wake me up?” He scratched his head, hair still damp from the shower.

“I can talk to you, right?

“Can you?” He immediately regretted the mockery in his voice. Shiro’s continued hesitance around him was aggravating. In the face of coping with his own emotional fallout, he struggled to remember that Shiro’s perception of him for the past half a year had also destroyed that bond of trust. At present, Keith knew he had a solid understanding of how Shiro had gotten to this place, and that was a solid first step.

“I think so?”

“We’re talking now. Have I ever been an unreliable confidante?”

“No.”

While he didn’t feel particularly tied to this place or situation, Shiro remained mired in this strange brand of Stockholm Syndrome, and he wasn’t ready to let go.

From somewhere from deep within, Keith felt the chilling call of déjà vu. Something about this circumstance wasn’t new. Perhaps it had been a pull from another life, another moment in the rumpled fabric of space and time.

_I would follow you to the edge of the universe._ He would do it, too, even if it broke him.

He set the knife on his nightstand and plopped down, folding his legs up cross-legged on the mattress.

Beside him, Shiro sat gingerly, nothing more than an inky blot of blackness in the dark. They were so very close, yet still so very far apart; Keith couldn’t tell who was in whose gravitational pull anymore. The hydraulic pressure in Shiro’s prosthetic hand hissed as he dug his fingers into the bedding between them, gathering the fabric into even, rippled folds and twisting as he drew his fingers together, a perfect convergence to a five-pointed star.

Shiro leaned back against the wall. “I think I’m building up a tolerance to whatever it is the doc is giving me.”

“You don’t actually know what it is, do you?” Keith wasn’t surprised. Although he was disappointed in Shiro’s apparent lack of regard for self-care, he didn’t exactly have the right to berate him for it.

Shiro closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Nope. I’ve been having headaches, so my next appointment was moved up. I can ask then.”

Keith took up the fabric of his pant legs as he balled his fists. He knew that by voicing these concerns about the injections, Shiro was, in a roundabout way, asking for help. “Find out before you go. You were really sick last time, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t, I will.” He said it simply, not meaning for it to come out like that, but there wasn’t any point in trying to hide the fact that he cared, the direction of his anger having moved mostly away from Shiro.

The catchlights in Shiro’s eyes flickered as his gaze shifted to Keith, the only visible movement.

Keith knew this was only the prelude. “Why did you come by?”

“It’s difficult to talk about.” His tone was distant as if trying to put his thoughts into cohesive words, speaking more to the night than to the person beside him.

Searching the contours of Shiro’s face, realization struck like a bullet through his palpitating heart. “...you miss me.”

This was the truth Shiro’s puerile understanding of his own emotions could not convey. Toeing off his sneakers, Shiro reached across himself with deliberate care, using his left hand to take Keith’s.

He didn’t pull away, squeezing back when he felt the slight pressure of the grip and Shiro’s thumb graze over his tendons and knuckles.

“If Lance and Hunk hadn’t come after me,” Keith began, “we would have exploded together. I don’t know what happened after Lance punched me in the jaw. Everything went black. It went black for six months, and then when I saw you at the gala, I thought-“ he stopped. This didn’t need to be rehashed, there wasn’t any point in compounding the hurt. He shifted closer to see Shiro’s face. “Well,” he exhaled, “do you know how that kind of rejection feels? Do you know how much I wanted to die at that very moment? Don’t look at me like you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. _You_ left _me_ , Shiro! When I saw you, now over a month ago, you threw a lot of accusations at me, but how did you even get to that point? Why didn’t you ever once think to confront me with them? Why couldn’t you do that?” Keith blinked back the moisture from his eyes.

“I-”Shiro started, but bit his lip when Keith interrupted.

“I never left you! How many ways do I have to tell you that before you’ll believe me? You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” _Still._

“Don’t be ridiculous. Me? Why would you even say that? Keith, you’re smart, talented, attractive-”

“Shiro-”

“You are. I’m attracted to you.” Long seconds of raindrops filled the space between his thoughts. “You have practically everything going for you. You could do anything you want.” He rubbed over the scabs at Keith’s wrist, left unwrapped to air.

At the coarseness of Shiro’s touch, Keith tensed but didn’t pull away. He didn’t like where this was going. Shiro lived in this place of disparagement. For someone who saw so much value in others, he’d never been able to see the worth in himself. “Don’t change the subject and don’t negate yourself. You don’t get to decide how important you are to me.” Keith turned his hand over, palm up and laced their fingers.

When Shiro spoke again, it was in halting contemplation. “All I’m saying is don’t sell yourself short.”

Keith snorted, “I _am_ short.” He doubted his message had actually gone through.

“What I meant was-”

“I know what you meant. Pidge is _smart_. Hunk is insanely intuitive. Lance has an uncanny aptitude for reading trends and people. I, on the other hand, have no useful life skills. What you consider talent is nothing more than useless parlor tricks. I have perfect pitch, I’m good at knife throwing, I can keep accurate time to the second. I’m-“ he threw up his hands, tossing his hair, face to the ceiling in exaggerated sarcasm, “agile and have a lot of stamina. Hey, maybe I could be on one of those shows like American Gladiator-“

“Keith?” Shiro reached out to stroke his hair.

Poised in the stillness, Keith could feel his breath and smell his fennel toothpaste, foreheads nearly touching. “Yeah?” He wanted it, whatever was happening next. The energy he’d expended denying himself this closeness was driving him to exhaustion.

Shiro’s hand slid up over Keith’s shoulder and around his neck, fingers threading through the curls at his nape and thumb beneath his chin. “Stop.”

Their two shadows melded in a pool of midnight pitch. Keith traced the ridges of Shiro’s cheekbones and brows with firm hands, pushed against the plumpness of his lips and the dip of his cupid’s bow. Plunging two fingers into Shiro’s mouth, Keith explored the ridges of teeth and the soft wetness of his tongue. With his other hand, he pushed back Shiro’s forelock, the contrast of the snowy white hair barely perceptible in the blackness. Raking nails across Shiro’s scalp, Keith held him firmly in place as if letting go might cause him to disappear. Time apart had changed them yet this was neither the desperate delusion of their last kiss nor the quiet knowledge of familiar intimacy.

Keith’s nascent craving sought something fresh and bright as when the stars were born. Shiro became the Moon, tidally locked to his golden flame. He let Shiro caress his fingers as he pulled them back, trailing saliva. Settling in closer, he slid both hands around the other’s trim waist.

Closing his eyes to the brush of lips against his own, Keith held his breath in tangible expectation. The crush of their faces, mouths, tongues, all of it an insatiable longing. Heat seeped down his spine and settled in his gut as he coursed his hands up from the small of Shiro’s back.

Shiro tugged gently back on Keith’s hair as they came up for air, nipping at his jaw, down his neck, and over his Adam’s apple to nibble at the tendons and tongue between his collarbones as he gasped.

Keith grasped Shiro’s shoulders, edging down his arms. In sudden recoil, he stiffened as his fingers slipped over the cool metal casement of the bionic arm. He mopped his bangs away from his eyes, sweat-sticky from his fervor. The reaction had been instinctive, but he cursed himself for it, loud enough that Shiro certainly heard. Head in his hands, Keith propped his elbows on his knees, hiding his arousal. He wanted the thing that he missed, the passionate intimacy that they had shared. Shiro was changed, they both were, and on a purely intellectual level, Keith knew that and understood it.

He also knew that Shiro could single-handedly kill him right there in his own bed with that arm. Experience told him that, and the thought was disconcerting. He recognized that he’d been fortunate enough to have Lance rescue him, like some fairytale damsel. It hadn’t been one of his finer moments. He wondered what had been going on. That particular side of Shiro he hadn’t seen, either before or since, although that might have something to do with circumstance. It wasn’t every day you could use your target’s emotional vulnerabilities to your advantage, and as much as Keith wanted to pretend he was above succumbing to that kind of psychological manipulation, the fact remained he was not.

The bed sheets rustled as Shiro sat up, eyes on him, waiting.

Keith’s back heaved with every deep breath and wiping his face again, he tentatively reached out, “May I?”

Shiro nodded with a quiet hum, granting Keith permission.

Hesitant, Keith slid his hand around the curve where the bicep would be. Solid and smooth, he admired the sleek design and sophisticated craftsmanship. The joinery was refined and elegant, every movement smooth and fluid. Something about the technology seemed far too advanced, from the quiet internal mechanisms to the way the piece meshed with and fused to Shiro’s upper arm. That wasn’t possible with standard prosthetic devices. The skin would rot before it could be made to integrate with metal like that, yet there was no seam as far as he could tell. Running his digits up the inside of Shiro’s elbow, he felt the tiny bumps of stamped numerals. “What’s this?”

“What are you looking at?”

Keith reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his phone. He turned on the flashlight, blinking at the light, a suddenly blinding sting before his eyes could adjust. Shiro peered over at him and lifted his elbow to allow Keith a better look.

“It looks like a serial number. One-one-seven-dash-nine-eight-seven-five. That doesn’t sound like Galran Tech coding though does it?”

“One-seventeen is my room number,” Shiro offered, lowering his arm and running his other hand up the back of his head through his perfect taper.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “When Allura had us go after the Dark Quintessence, it was coded alphanumerically, same as our personnel numbers. This is just numeric.”

“So what do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, probably nothing.” _All the same, I’m curious_. He set his phone down on the bed, the light shining upward, casting its dim glow between them from the stark white brilliance of Keith’s blank lock screen.

“I-” Shiro hesitated, glancing around the room. Standing and stretching his arms behind his head, he looked over to the window sill and froze when something caught his eye. He reached for the red toy lion still standing there. “I’m surprised you still have this.”

“I don’t know why.”

Holding the lion carefully and picking at the frayed edges of the gold ribbon around its neck, Shiro looked over at him.

“I’m only here because of you,” Keith said it aloud this time. He was certain Shiro didn’t see it that way, but it was the truth. There were at least two meanings in that statement, the one of the moment at Galran Tech and one other. If Shiro hadn’t found him ten years ago, he would have died, and he knew that. At the time he’d resigned himself to it. Once the panic had left and he’d been able to compartmentalize the pain, he’d made his peace. There’d been too much internal bleeding. The surgeon expected him to die. He’d expected to die. Then, that red lion had appeared in the hospital, tucked away inside a care package full of B movies, puzzle games, snacks and trinkets from a stranger who identified himself on the card as Takashi “Shiro” Shirogane, a Ph.D. candidate in astrophysics. Later, Keith had called the number left below the signature and the ‘get well’ wishes. He’d been curious to meet the person who had decided he mattered, that Keith Kogane, an orphaned kid from some nowhere ranching town in New Mexico still had some worth left to the world.

Shiro handed the lion back to Keith’s outstretched hand. “I guess I should go.”

Keith nodded but didn’t stand. “Yeah,” he said. “You probably should.” What he’d meant to say was entirely different. Whether Shiro liked it or not, Keith wasn’t going to give up on him. 

 

###  **ii.**

Meeting at the cafe was Keith’s idea. Smoke and Dagger was a small coffee house overlooking the water and located an approximately equal distance between the Altean Industries and Galran Technologies headquarters. Its sister shop had been dubbed Cloak and Mirror. Somewhere someone had laughed at their own cleverness, and someone else had asked what either name had to do with coffee. Most of the decor and furniture had been salvaged from historic buildings and old houses prior to demolition. The bar, stained and polished slats of redwood burl, had once been someone’s treasure. Mismatched chairs congregated around disparate tables, having already amassed a smattering of the faithful: yuppies, hipsters, and college students worshipping the bean, among their many gods. Keith liked it because the coffee was excellent, the cafe was clean, and no one looked at him twice.

Finishing his cigarette, he snuffed out the cherry, grinding it into the grout between the storefront bricks before dropping the butt to the sidewalk. His lip split from the dry air, and he sucked on it until the bleeding stopped. He was early, and the morning sun just barely hovered over the ridgeline of the mountains, white peaks cresting toward the clouds. It seemed longer than a month since they had all been together and he felt a surge of anxiety as he pushed through the door, brass bells tinkling and clanging against the glass pane to signal his arrival.

Hunk raised a hand in greeting, already at a table with two cups before him. He stood, breaking into a grin as Keith lengthened his stride to reach him.

Dropping his helmet with a clatter into a chair, Keith met the open arms. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” Hunk returned, squeezing him firmly before letting go.

It was hard not to remain too long in Hunk’s embrace.

“Pidge is hunting down a parking spot and Lance,” Hunk shrugged, “well, he’s here somewhere.”

Leaving his jacket on the back of his chair, and pushing up the three-quarter sleeves of the shirt layered under his _Sisters of Mercy_ tee, Keith went to place his order.

At the register, he suddenly wanted to laugh. There was something almost absurd about meeting this way; they didn’t belong to this particular crowd.

The feeling of being watched hadn’t left since Keith had started working at Galran Tech. He had expected it though. It was a strange sort of job to swap, yet Keith’s attachment to Allura Alforse and Altea Industries had always been mercenary at best.

Originally he’d taken the position because it was simple work that came with a good salary. He hadn’t been able to get his student loans deferred, and his medical bills were astronomical. He’d been visited by creditors who hadn’t known what to do. He owned next to nothing, and after two solid months of hospitalization, he didn’t even have a job to garnish wages from.

That he’d get to work with Shiro had also been one of the factors in his decision. At that time, they had just been friends; Shiro could be close with his values and cagey about his beliefs, but Keith knew it had a lot to do with his family and upbringing. He didn’t know how to confess his feelings, and so he hadn’t. Shiro ended up on dating sites just to meet people, always attractive and always women. Keith had meanwhile immersed himself in hookups and bar culture. He might never have admitted anything, except eventually, Shiro had expressed concern over his behavior. There had been nothing else for him to say but the truth. “It’s a distraction, so maybe I can stop thinking about you.” He should have known better than to assume Shiro’s sexuality was cut and dry, or that Shiro’s desire might not correspond with his own.

Sometimes he thought he should have finished his studies. He had a GED, two years of community college and two and a half years of university. What was it for other than a wealth of student debt?

_“When you’re dead no one’s going to care what fancy titles and pieces of paper you earned. It matters what kind of person you are and what you did with the time you had.”_ Shiro had told him that, once, when they’d been a little bit younger, but it seemed almost too idealistic now.

He slid his cash across to the barista and muttered something along the lines of a thank you. Heading back to the table with his coffee, Keith spotted Pidge, hands spread out before her in exasperation.

“-took for-ev-er to find parking! I ended up halfway down the block, three streets-!” She halted, staring at Keith, mouth open in an ‘O’ of surprise before she shut it again and flung herself at him. Hunk grabbed the cup from his hand as he caught her.

_Me too, Pidge._

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Keith Kogane,” she mumbled, her words muffled by his shirt as she locked her fingers around him.

Squeezing tight, he rested his cheek on top of her head of sandy hair. “Yeah, well, you know, new job, new place, dead man walking-”

“If you think you’re getting off that easy, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Hey now! This was my idea!”

“Yeah, so? You owe me.”

“Are you sure it’s not the other way around?” he teased.

“Yes.” She answered stubbornly, backing up a step and releasing her hands as he let her go. “You’ve been training.” It came across as part accusation, part observation.

The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. “Training makes it sound like I’m preparing for some kind of major athletic event.”

“You’re not?”

“It’s possible,” he shrugged.

They sat down, Keith positioning himself between them. Hunk pushed Pidge’s drink across the table toward her where she spent several very long seconds eyeing it suspiciously before taking a swig. It must have been right because she immediately downed a second gulp.

Taking off his gloves, Keith shoved them into a pocket. He raked his fingers through his hair, gathering it and pulling a hair tie off his wrist with his teeth to secure it. Pidge reached over and twisted her fingers in his loose curls before pulling them through. “I don’t see you for a month and this,” she patted his hair, “has gone from a vestigial puff sprouting out the back of your head to what I would almost call ‘cute.’”

“I guess I need a haircut.” The problem with that was then it would grow again.

He felt another slight tug on his hair and turned as Lance, frowning, pulled up a chair to squeeze in between him and Pidge. Keith saw Pidge kick him hard as he shoved her chair across the floor with his foot, scraping and squealing over the hardwood slats. “It’s so pretty though.”

Keith swatted the hand away and turned to Hunk. “Do you need to pet me too?”

“He’s just jealous,” Hunk remarked, watching Lance ease the messenger bag off his shoulder and fit himself into the space he’d made.

He sidled up next to Keith, at the edge of his seat, knees and thighs pressed together as he leaned over the tabletop and flippantly waved a hand. “Of this? Please.”

Keith bumped Lance with a shoulder, hard, and nudged his knee under the table. “Don’t knock it and then come begging for it later.”

“Ouch,” Hunk cringed.

Lance smirked, ignoring the burn and it occurred to Keith that the public recognition was what he actually wanted regardless of whether the attention was positive or negative. Relaxing into the chair, Lance rested his elbow on Keith’s available shoulder. Eyeing the cups of coffee on the small, round surface, he asked. “Where’s mine?”

Hunk looked him over sternly, cocking a brow. “You didn’t tell me what you wanted before you disappeared for twenty minutes. It’s not like I can read your mind.”

Glancing from Hunk to Lance, and dropping the shoulder being used as an armrest, Keith blinked. “Twenty minutes?” Not that it was a surprise, Lance did Lance, and sometimes that meant spending blocks of time in public toilets.

Rolling her eyes, Pidge jammed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “You also spent half an hour in the bathroom before we left. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah. I was just perfecting my manscaping.” He squared his shoulders and lifted up his shirt, revealing his very undefined, very hairless stomach. “I missed a spot this morning.”

“And you probably moisturized your balls while you were at it, too,” Keith murmured, resting his chin on the heel of his palm.

Hunk spat his coffee back into his cup, coughing.

Keith reached over and pounded him on the back. “Don’t choke.”

Snorting Hunk gulped at his drink. “Wrong pipe.”

Lance shrugged. “It keeps everything fresh down there.” He left to place an order, returning with a ceramic mug filled with some frothy libation that smelled both bold and sweet. Setting it down, he bent over to root through his bag, finally emerging with a pink tube that he promptly tossed to Keith.

Raspberry ChapStick. “What’s this for?”

“I sent you a whole bunch, and you’re not using them.”

Reaching across Lance’s lap, Keith dropped the plastic cylinder back into the bag. He didn’t make it all the way back up before he felt the touch on his neck.

“Looks like you’ve been up to some fun,” Lance said smugly with keen envy as he pressed his thumb into the hickey Keith had noticed while shaving that morning. Tracing the line of Keith’s jaw, Lance grazed across the soft skin behind his ear, up and around the shell of cartilage and down back around his lobe to gently tug at the tiny gold hoops. Keith leaned back into his chair and brushed the hand away.

A sudden silence descended, and all eyes were on him and his red badge of indignity. “What?”

“Was it Shiro?” Lance asked, finally.

Keith nodded. “Yes.” He thought he saw Pidge and Hunk exchange a glance.

“You made me a promise.”

It felt like a weak attempt at a call-out; he hadn’t forgotten, nor had he been disingenuous. “I did. Are you implying I might not keep my word?”

Lance stiffened. “No, I-“

“Good. We didn’t have sex.” His mouth was a parched desert wasteland and swallowing felt like sandpaper grating the back of his throat. Leveling his gaze at Lance, he drank some of his coffee. Surprisingly, it wasn’t very good, or perhaps the shift in the mood had soured it.

Lance’s shoulders fell, defeated. He wrapped an arm around Keith, squeezing tight. He knew. He understood. That thing he’d said about Keith and Shiro and what it was Keith needed? He’d probably been right.

Keith didn’t see the point in trying to hide what had happened. The problem was that the truth made him feel as if he was betraying someone, only he wasn’t sure if that someone were himself or Lance. The lines were a lot fuzzier than he’d expected them to be and believing that he probably should have sent Lance home that night didn’t help. There wasn’t any sense in denying himself the things he wanted as long as it hurt no one, yet in hindsight, it was beginning to feel like giving himself the things he wanted in the moment did lead to hurt, hurt that neither he nor Lance nor Shiro were entirely immune to.

The bells again chimed against the door as it opened, and as if in direct response to his thoughts, Shiro walked into the coffee shop. It only made his self-doubt worse.

Keith raised his hand in greeting. Lance, still draped around him like a mantle, turned around as well. Pidge stood up, and Hunk skidded his chair back from the table.

“Hey.” Shiro returned the salutation.

Keith hadn’t expected him to come. He had even refused the invitation, yet here he was, looking as full of regret at having shown up as Keith now was about having asked him at all. Shiro seemed ready to bolt, brows knit in a welling of _something_.

Dropping out from Lance’s entanglement, Keith got out of his chair to grab another from an empty table, dragging it between Pidge and Hunk. “Here. Want me to get you something?”

Shiro shook his head and combed a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “Nah. I’m good.” He forced a smile as Keith sat back down. Taking off his jacket, he hung it over the back of his chair before looking again for confirmation that it was okay to take a seat. His long sleeves hid his cybernetic arm for the most part, but Pidge was eyeing his hand hungrily, and the line of Hunk’s mouth cut a straight line across his face.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

The phrase itself could have been canned, yet the sincerity of Shiro’s tone betrayed all the trepidation of his presence.

Pidge still stood, arms folded over her chest, glasses on her head like some makeshift headband. “Are you going to sit?” she asked, flatly.

“I-”

“We get it, man. You don’t have to say anything.” Hunk started. “But if he says you’re out,” he jerked his thumb to Keith, “you’re out,” he finished, rotating both hands toward the door in a full, measured, double chop.

“I asked him to come,” Keith confirmed.

Pidge sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She threw her arms around Shiro, pressing her face into the center of his chest as he held her. “Don’t you ever turn off your vitals off on me again!” She sobbed into him as he pressed his lips to the top of her head, eyeing the other three still watching him, one at a time.

Lance had still not said a word, but instead of hanging himself all over Keith, he’d resumed his pretense of comfort, seething in the tension he tried desperatly to hide.

Keith excused himself to get Shiro a cup of coffee, despite the negative response when he’d posed the question. It gave him justification to leave the table. Though he wasn’t sure where Shiro currently stood on the subject of _them_ , the stress of being here was tangible. More than anything, for Shiro this was a distress call.

Ultimately, that had been what he’d decided after the Gala, only he hadn’t quite been able to solidify the thought until recently. Shiro’s adrenaline had been through the roof, and recorded video confirmed that he’d been drugged with something just before, something that had addled his thoughts and heightened his emotions. They all knew that. Even Shiro was aware of the mind and behavior altering effects of the drugs he’d taken. In all liklihood, the same drugs he currently took.

Keith fixed the drink the way Shiro liked it, watching from the corner of his eye as Pidge finally extracted herself, wiping at her face and trying to smile. Unlike him, she hadn’t shied away from the metal arm. She held that hand as they sat, examining it, as he eventually had, listening to the buzz and hum of the machine parts and probably undressing it with her eyes, taking mental snapshots of it in the various stages of imagined disassembly.

Shiro hadn’t deliberately hurt her with it.

Keith’s wrist still pained him at times. The scabs were nearly gone, but the skin was raw and tender. He’d slathered the bandages with Vaseline, wrapped and taped it. From a different perspective, it was just a flesh wound. He hadn’t suffered anything broken other than his nose, and that had healed better than the previous time it had been broken. Lance had packed it so that it was perfectly straight again. His face hadn’t looked so nice since he’d been in high school and he knew it, thinking that perhaps he should be thanking Shiro for those few weeks of discomfort.

For a full minute, Keith watched them before returning. Their orbits had felt so very divergent, but perhaps they were closer than he realized. Hunk leaned in, saying something he couldn’t hear, and even Lance smiled. They hadn’t all been together like this in almost eight months.

Keith brought the coffee to Shiro, one hand on his shoulder, squeezing as he leaned to place the cup on the table.

“You didn’t have to.” Shiro looked up at him, wrinkle between his brow, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“Yes, I did.” _It gave me a reason to come over here and at least try to make this easier._

Back to his station and the disappointing coffee, Keith swirled his fingertip through the dark liquid and oily separation skimming the top, before drawing his hand away and popping the finger in his mouth. He gnawed at his nail, and then wiped it on his jeans. Shiro shook his head, pressing his lips together to stifle a laugh.

Lance blurted out suddenly, “He’s so gross, right?”

“Am not.” Keith stretched his legs out beneath the table, meeting Shiro’s ankle with his boot then pulling back to rest his heels on the pedestal base.

Hunk grinned. “Sorry to break it to you, Keith, but you really need to watch a video of yourself sometime. Consider it an academic exercise.”

Pidge shook her head and bent down to slurp some of the milk froth off the top of her latte.

“You too, Pidge,” Hunk added.

It was time to change the subject. “Okay,” Keith ran his hands back over his hair, only momentarily smoothing down the escaped tendrils and curls around his hairline. “Business time.”

“Fine.” Pidge looked up from her drink. “You’re gunning for the big one, aren’t you?”

Keith smirked.

“I feel like a size joke would be appropriate right about here.” Hunk extended his hands out, palms facing to mime the insertion with a critical eye.

“Ignore.” Pidge went on, “Let’s see, the question of the day is-”

“Are you still working for Allura Alforse?” There it was, he’d gotten it out, and the answer would determine the course the remainder of the conversation would take.

Her gaze shifting between Hunk and Lance, Pidge began, “I think I can speak for the three of us.” Hunk nodded and Lance glanced over at her sharply before turning his attention back to Keith. “We’re currently unemployed,” she continued, frowning. “Allura has been known to withhold information before, but she should have known better.”

“She definitely should have known better,” Hunk echoed.

Keith nodded. He twisted around to unzip one of the front pockets in his jacket. Reaching inside for two small vials, he took them out, and setting his hand on the top of the table, slid the palmed contents across to Hunk while staring dead ahead at Shiro. “This is Shiro’s cocktail.”

Under the weight of Keith’s gaze, Shiro shifted uncomfortably.

“I told you I’d take care of this if you didn’t.”

“You did,” Shiro returned. “And if you don’t do what you say you will, then I don’t know you very well, correct?”

Keith’s mouth tilted up, and then he smiled in self-assured affirmation. “Correct.”

Hunk took one of the vials between his fingers, turning it around. “It’s a centrifuge tube.” He paused, now looking at Shiro, “So, I guess you’re patient 117-9875?”

Shiro disregarded him, still fixed on Keith. “You could have told me!”

“You could pay attention when you visit the clinic. I haven’t seen you since I got these. Besides, you said you weren’t coming. I’m not going to ask you five times over if you’ve finally made up your mind. You were working this morning.” His tone fell clipped. It had been too hard to stay out of the way. If Shiro were so bent on being inserted back into Keith’s life, then he would have to re-accustom himself to the idea that his personal well being once again fell under the distinct category of “Keith’s Business.” He sucked the inside of his cheek between his teeth and chewed. “Yes, Hunk. That’s apparently Shiro’s patient number.” If Shiro wanted to expound upon that, he was welcome to. “Do you think you can figure out what’s in it?”

Still studying the liquid, translucent and slightly viscous with a yellowish tinge, he held it up to the light. Nodding his confirmation, Hunk continued. “I can try. You’re the better chemist though.”

“I think you’re mistaking chemistry with knowledge of household cleaners.”

“You know exactly what to use to make stuff blow up.”

“That’s about all I know. I don’t have access to a lab.” The laboratory spaces at Galran Tech had real security, unlike the rest of the building. The practical side of Keith’s brain wondered why Zarkon even maintained a security detail. It wasn’t a competency issue; it was a knowledge issue. He figured they were all for show. To most people, just the presence of security was enough of a deterrent to prevent any problems from arising.

Pidge had turned her attention back to the mechanisms of Shiro’s hand, caressing the smoothly polished casement and pinching the supple, satiny tips of his fingers, thoroughly engrossed.

Lance reached across Keith for the other vial and held it up to the light, fingernail poised to pop the cap off.

“Don’t wave it around like that!” Keith snatched the vial back and set it back down in front of Hunk. “You’ll contaminate it!”

Lance’s smugness had returned, but he seemed pleased with himself, eyeing the vial narrowly down his nose. “I’d place a lot of money on it being an opioid with a psychotropic.”

“I don’t think any of us are going to bet against that, space juice. Try again,” Pidge quipped. Keith watched as she laced her fingers between Shiro’s, squeezed, and let go again. For such an incredibly advanced piece of technology, the question remained; why was it not publicly available? Whose egos were at stake and what was the cost? His mind wandered, but they were still missing so many parts to this puzzle. Was it even all the same puzzle?

“-how did you get these?” Hunk’s question called him back to attention.

“Camera magic. Pidge tapped in and replaced the security feed with a clear record.” Pushing back against the chair, he thrust his hip up and groped around in the pocket of his fitted pants, retrieving a small USB drive, and tossed it to Pidge. She snatched it out of the air and squirreled it away into one of the many folds of her utility shorts. Before Keith had erased and reformatted the drive, it had contained some of the code granting her access to a larger part of the system than she’d been able to obtain the night of the gala. “I just made sure I timed my visit to the clinic appropriately, walked in, took what I needed, and walked out again.”

Pidge rubbed her eyes and blinked. “It took him fifty seconds.”

“Forty-nine. And eight of those were spent jamming the pad for the keycard. It would have taken less time, but we thought it would be a good idea to ramp down the dosage and I had trouble finding a sterile needle.”

“Wait, hold up there. So now you’re messing with Shiro’s drugs?” Lance rested his head on his palms, elbows propped on the edge of the table.

“Actually, I think that’s smart.” Shiro mused. “If it’s addictive, and as the one taking it, I guarantee you it is, you should know you can’t just quit cold turkey. Withdrawal carries risks.” He continued, “Pidge, is there any way to get my medical files from your end?”

She shook her head and took a swig of her drink, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Nope. I can’t even locate the server from my tap.” Shifting forward in her chair, she looked at Keith.

“What are you looking at me for?”

“Because you are in a position to find someone with clearance and break in through their connection.”

Keith frowned. It wasn’t ideal, but he had to admit, some things worked the way they were intended to at Galran Tech. There was a list of clearance levels in the security office. He had even needed to use it on occasion to confirm access codes with the IT department. It never ceased to amaze him just how many of the corporate scientists were incapable of using a computer. “We’re talking old-fashioned breaking and entering. I can do that.” He folded his arms and leaned back.

“Mmmhmm,” Pidge nodded, knowingly. “And, while we’re on the topic of security, why is one of the cameras jammed in Gallery 12?”

Shiro pursed his lips thoughtfully then said, “You’re talking about the one in front of the lions?” He sipped his coffee, extracting his hand from her scrutiny and wrapping it around the cup.

“It’s jammed?” Keith asked.

“Yeah.” Shiro shrugged. “It’s been stuck facing away from the exhibit case since before the show even opened.”

“Oh. I hadn’t noticed, is there a particular reason why the camera isn’t working?”

“No.” Shiro drank some more of his coffee, looking down at it in contemplation. “It’s better when you brew it.”

“Of course it is,” Keith said automatically. “Pidge, why are you asking?”

“It occurred to me that perhaps the thing Allura had tasked us to find was actually part of the exhibit. They’re in plain sight, they look like they go with the one she already owns. It’s the only case that an actual person spends hours watching. Shiro-”

“What? That doesn’t make sense. What kind of amateur assumes that an obviously guarded object is the one being hidden? If you hide something, you don’t go putting it somewhere everyone will notice. I mean, I get it, it’s cat and mouse, but neither of them is _stupid_.”

Pidge frowned. “But she has the black one.”

“So?” Keith threw up his hands in exasperation.

The expression on Shiro’s face was pained. “Look, the only reason I spend so much time staring at those lions is-” He inhaled sharply, expanding his chest as he sat up and gripped the edge of the table, brown eyes boring right into Keith and the core that contained his soul. “I miss you. All of you.”

Keith heard the unspoken words, “ _Especially you_.” He knew that feeling intimately, the condition of being just close enough to reach out and touch-

He was missing the part about faith.

He heard Lance speaking.

“- some sort of conspiracy, like Allura was going to try to use us as a cover for something else.”

“I don’t think so,” Pidge countered. “Everything about this is too sloppy.”

“And conspiracies aren’t sloppy?” Keith leaned into the table toward her. “How many times have you tried to convince me that we never went to the Moon? Nothing about your ‘evidence’ is tight.”

He knew he’d pushed the right buttons when she returned him a look that said she’d already explained this a thousand times before. “We didn’t go! Kubrick filmed the entire Apollo 11 mission at a studio in Area 51.”

“He did not. I’ll give you doctored pictures, fine, but Stanley Kubrick did not film the Moon landing at a military base outside of Las Vegas. He filmed it on location, _on the Moon_.”

“Keith, you really think we got to the Moon in 1969?” Pidge rubbed her eyes and blinked.

“Did you just say that Kubrick went to the Moon on the Apollo 11 mission with-” Lance asked, incredulously.

“Yes! Both!” It wasn’t that far-fetched.

“Really?” Pidge retorted flatly. “An aluminum can isn’t gonna protect your organic, earthy poop chute from cosmic radiation.”

Lance glanced from one to the other, snapping and firing finger pistols at Keith. “Don’t you mean bang hole?”

Keith raised his brows, taking one of Lance’s hands in his, patting it condescendingly. “Not necessarily the same thing, but now that you’ve brought it up, if we’re going to talk about anyone’s radioactive ‘bang hole,’ we should definitely start with yours.”

It was Shiro’s turn to spit his coffee back into his cup, covering his mouth, but this time incapable of smothering his laughter.

Hunk nearly choked on his own drink as it came back up through his nose. “Wow. Galra Keith is like one hundred times sassier than regular Keith.”

Pidge started to giggle through her teeth while Lance gaped at Keith, the latter breaking into peals of belly-clutching laughter. Covering his face with his hands, Lance, too, appeared caught up in the moment.

It wasn’t all that funny, but as Keith wiped away his tears, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed with his friends.

 

 

###  **iii.**

“I’d like to think that the value of a plan lies in the execution and that success depends entirely on who’s doing it.” Keith raised a brow, arms crossed and shifting his weight to one leg as he waited for Shiro to do that thing he was known for not doing, which was make up his mind.

To the casual observer, Shiro’s room looked uninhabited. The bed lacked a comforter, and the sheets were severely tucked in and folded at the corners in perfect military pleats. A black, Vellux blanket made a perfect rectangle at the foot of the bed and the single pillow sat plumped to hotel service perfection. Shoes were someplace out of the way, probably the closet, and no personal effects graced the surfaces of the bureau or the nightstand, both having accumulated a thin layer of dust unmarred by human hands. The bathroom was empty; there weren’t even mats or a towel on the floor. Nothing lined the sink or the shower and only a single, unsurprisingly black, towel hung over the top of the rod supporting a single, clear shower curtain. The roll of toilet paper had not been placed in the holder and assumed a position on the top of the porcelain tank instead.

Shiro tugged the turtleneck over his head and around the breadth of his shoulders while Keith pretended to not admire the sleek, powerful lines of his body. He blew the mussed hair out of his eyes, but it fell right back. “What if we get caught?” he asked.

“Don’t get caught,” Keith returned. “You’re supposed to be the competent one.”

“Well, the last time I did a job like this, it was kind of a disaster.”

“This time everyone’s on the same page.”

Shiro tugged on his jacket and zipped it shut. Keith admired the way it stretched across his rippling shoulders. The effect had him biting the inside of his lip before he said or did something he’d probably regret.

Taking a deep breath, Keith finally replied. “Look, if, and I do mean _if_ , we happen to get caught, we run. Simple as that.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a Bluetooth earpiece and tossed it to Shiro, who caught it one-handed. “This one’s yours. Pidge is on camera duty, so we’re going to have to listen to her cues.”

“Right.” Shiro slipped the device into a pocket before heading to the bathroom to fix his hair.

Keith tucked in his shirt and straightened his uniform jacket as he watched Shiro go. He double checked that he had a new drive with him. He’d woken up tired that afternoon, head throbbing like he’d slammed into a wall face first. It shouldn’t be so difficult to make an evening shift, but he’d spent the previous night and well into the morning working the kinks out with Pidge.

He had picked this particular evening because Shiro was assigned to the laboratories, which put him one floor below Zarkon’s office and Zarkon’s office was their final destination. His server grade CPU just happened to house the sensitive files. They thought about trying through Medical, but the clininc was on the first floor and there was always more foot traffic in that part of the building. Theoretically, it would be easier to work on a floor that was entirely closed after hours.

Keith wasn’t cleared for the laboratories; he didn’t have that seniority, but he did have the next best thing: camera duty from the “box,” as he so fondly called the security room. Observing Shiro was nothing to complain about.

The plan was to “meet up for dinner” after their respective shifts if anyone happened to ask. Only, before dinner they’d perhaps take a quick trip over to the president’s office, having forgotten that he was conveniently out early for the weekend.

They walked over together in the comfortable silence of people who knew each other well. Keith almost took Shiro’s hand. Almost. Instead, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets to avoid unnecessary touching, pretending not to notice Shiro’s own intentional reach before he did so. He resolved not to play at this game, pushing down his emotions and trying to forget about them.

At the security room, they parted ways. Keith entered to the dim fuchsia light, and the glow of the monitors arranged in a perfect grid of columns and rows across one wall, forty screens in all, to cover the two buildings and the grounds. Rubbing at his eyes, he made for the desk and sat down by the phone, figuring it would be better to take the responsible position as the first one there. At least then Sendak wouldn’t grumble about it when he finally arrived. Keith’s attention to this particular task bordered on abysmal. He found himself drifting to Shiro, scrupulously studying the way he walked, the way he rested against the wall, head back with his arms hanging limply at his sides, ankles crossed and uncrossed again. Shiro was obviously unentertained. Once Sendak finally showed, half an hour late, he spent the following three and a half hours napping, during which time he subjected Keith to his obnoxious snores and extraordinarily fetid farts

In other words, a good time.

When it was finally over, Keith left his superior there for Antok and Ulaz, their replacements, to find.

He met Shiro in the stairwell outside the labs, equipping his earpiece and dialing in to Pidge. For whatever reason, no cameras had been placed inside the stairwells, only at the outside doors and just inside the exits from each floor.

“Hello friends,” she chirped. “Looks like I have a read on both of you. Go up to the next floor, but don’t head through the door quite yet. Janitorial staff is still working.”

“Roger that.” Keith headed up the next flight of stairs, Shiro at his heels.

After several very long minutes, she pronounced the hall clear. “You’re good. Streaming the video to the cameras now.”

“I hope it looks correct because Antok’s on duty and that guy is sharp as a hawk,” Keith sighed.

“No kidding,” Shiro replied.

They padded down the hall, stopping before the large corner suite belonging to President Zarkon. All the offices on this level featured thick, textured, floor to ceiling glass windows and doors facing the hall. Most, this one included, also had vertical blinds. These had been left open except for one section, which hid the side and back of the desk. The Moon cast some illumination into the spacious room, enough so that they wouldn’t need extra light at least. Keith peered through the gray-violet tinting to the outside window and beyond to the landed constellations of the glittering city as dusk descended. Having only seen the outside of this office once, before his interview, he had forgotten that it didn’t take a regular key or a key card. Unlike every other room in the building, entry to the office of Daibazaal Zarkon was coded to an electronic numeric keypad.

Of course, it would be, Keith thought, but he’d brought everything he’d anticipated needing to attempt ingress in without setting off any alarms. He knelt in front of the device to get a better look at the vinyl keys of the number pad. Shiro crouched beside him, waiting.

He thought he could see some visible wear and grime on the 1, 9, and 0 but wanted to be sure. Reaching into a pocket, Keith pulled out a small tin and, holding his breath, opened it. Tapping out a small amount of talc into the lid, he blew a fine dusting over the keypad. Screwing the lid back on and tucking it away again, he turned his head to the side again to see where the powder remained.

“It looks like 1, 4, 8, 9, and 0,” Keith recited to Shiro and Pidge. “I think this is an eight-key combination pad, but I could be wrong.”

“It’s probably something nineteen-eighty-four,” Shiro whispered, definitively, leaning in to get a better look at the lock.

“Why?” Keith asked.

“Because his son was born in nineteen-eighty-four.”

“How do you know that?” It was an odd thing to remember.

“He told me? I don’t recall the exact conversation. It was probably relevant at the time.”

“All right you two, I’m searching my data file on him now.” Pidge’s connection crackled with static as they waited.

“I should have done this last night.”

“Keith, that would have meant two trips up here, and my connection is questionably stable right now. There’s a lot of interference in this part of the building.”

He hummed, tapping on the side of the lock with the flat of his hand in dull agitation.

“We’re fine. Just remember patience-”

“Yields focus,” Keith finished.

Shiro nodded. “Got any hints yet? What is his kid’s birthdate?”

“Pulling it up now. Try September tenth.”

Keith input the numbers: 9-1-0-1-9-8-4 then pressed pound.

Nothing happened. He had only used seven numbers.

This time Keith added a zero in front of the first nine, but again, nothing. He pulled his brows together in thought, the crease between them deepening. There were a lot of ways to represent dates. He started systematically, going through month first then day, followed by combinations of day first then month, punching each one in twice using # and * as the enter or clear key.

Still nothing.

Out of sheer frustration, he stabbed his finger at eight random buttons, hoping the lock didn’t track errors. Keith looked over at Shiro, raising a brow in question.

“I’ve got nothing.”

Considering for a moment, he realized he’d forgotten the most important logical sequence for dates to appear: year, month, day. He tried again: 1-9-8-4-0-9-1-0-#

The lock clicked and the door cracked inward. He pushed it open and slipped inside.

“It worked,” Shiro reported.

“Good, now before you go in- Keith?”

“Hmm?” he stopped, barely listening as he stared up at the saber hanging on the wall directly across from the desk. The large and slightly curved handle fit a natural grip and matched the curve of the blade, A carved stone sigil embedded into the crossguard resembled a stylized numeral “5.” Even now, dimly illuminated by the nightscape through the window, the symbol glowed a faint aqua.

He didn’t know what its significance was, but he wanted to find out. Why did Zarkon keep this saber hanging on his wall like some valuable object, and why did it match the design of his own dagger? He’d just assumed his was a cheap knife his dad bought somewhere; there was no visible maker’s mark, and an online image search pulled up absolutely nothing. However, since he’d been here, he’d learned that both Zarkon and Thace had pieces that matched. Because of the highly reflective quality of the sigil, he kept the entire crossguard of his dagger wrapped. He hadn’t unwrapped it for Zarkon, but they had compared the quality of the blades during his interview, and there was no mistaking the similarities of the distinct shape. Thace’s he’d seen several times at game night. For what seemed like a terribly long time, Keith stood before it. Reaching out, he touched one callused fingertip to the cool stone and traced the sigil, the light fanning out beneath his touch.

“-stay behind the desk. If I lose my connection, the camera won’t spot you there.”

Keith turned to see Shiro enter and the door close behind him, the lock automatically engaging when it clicked shut.

Keith made his way over to the desk and squatting behind it, moved the keyboard down to his knees and fished in his pocket for the drive where he’d loaded his decryption program for bypassing the login credentials. Once Shiro had joined him, warm shoulder pressing into his, he turned on the monitor and shoved the USB device into the port.

“Hacking is Pidge’s job. When did you learn to do this?”

The warmth of Shiro’s body radiated off of him as he crouched there. Keith could feel him, smell him, and he had no immediate recourse other than to sweat and try not to think about it. Respiring sharply through his teeth and swallowing down the dry lump in his throat, he tried in vain to assuage the very visceral feeling he’d just been gutted.

His stomach turned over. Shiro had asked a question.

“Well, she built most of the program, but I designed the decryption array. We’re looking at algorithms. Divide and conquer, recursive arrays.” He considered for a moment, without tearing his eyes from the screen and tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Everything can be reduced to numbers. It’s all value assignment for quantity.”

Static fizzled over the line as Pidge chimed in, “Did you forget who built a shortwave radio just so he could listen to number stations in Russia?”

Keith grinned. Strings of numerals and letters cast their bright glow from the monitor. “They’re in other places too.”

“You just want codes to crack and alien signals to follow.” Shiro put some weight into the shoulder bump and watched the screen from over Keith’s shoulder.

“Damn straight.” He wished he’d ever found a real alien signal. Everything so far had been military. All ‘alien’ signals were military. He’d even gotten Pidge to hack into the Allen Telescope Array once, but she had found nothing more than what they’d already discovered.

“Hate to break it to you, babe,” Shiro pointed out, “but I can’t imagine an alien race advanced enough to hear our signals and respond would even be remotely interested in what we have to offer. Humans are pretty terrible.”

Keith bristled and whipped his head around to stare him down, eye to eye, lips pressed tightly together. “Maybe they’ll come for the whales,” he replied without skipping a beat. _Babe._ Why had Shiro called him that? It was probably just a slip.

Shiro said nothing.

Returning to the scrolling digits, he looked for the visual pattern. As soon as he spotted it, he paused the program to input several swift keystrokes.

He was in.

“Thanks, Pidge.” he whispered. He’d been about ninety-five percent confident that it would work, having subtracted two percent for bad luck and three for general exhaustion, providing the encryption used on the Galran Technologies’ servers was similar to or the same as that used on their security cameras.

In short order, Keith set up his search parameters, making sure to retrieve the data first that he wanted most:

**117-9875**

**Dark Quintessence**

**Takashi Shirogane**

**(Keith | Akira) Kogane**

 

Shiro followed along as he typed, glancing curiously at him as he input himself.

“Don’t tell me you forgot my parents didn’t name me Keith.”

“No, I’m just not used to-”

A crash sounded through his earpiece.

“Pidge? Is everything all right?” Shiro asked.

At first, there was only silence, then the line popped back to life, sounding in Keith’s ear.

“Down now!” Pidge directed, “I’ve lost my link.”

Keith reached over to turn off the monitor just before Shiro reached up and pulled him behind the desk by his shoulders. They crashed to the floor, a tangle of limbs. Keith scrambled off and leaned back against the drawers.

“Shiro! Foot.”

Shiro didn’t move. Keith pulled his legs in and folded himself up as small as he could, arms wrapped around his knees, to give Shiro some space.

“Uhm, foot? Shiro?” Pidge hissed, “Tuck it in!”

Shiro moved as directed, squeezing himself as close to the drawers as he could, and lowering his head between his knees and his chest.

“If I can get under the desk, you’ll have more room,” Keith said under his breath. This was one of those rare instances where he was actually okay with being too short to reach his mailbox or the top shelf in the kitchen cabinets. There was no way Shiro would be able to fit into this space. He felt like a child hiding where no one would find him, a skill he’d gleaned from older kids when he’d entered the foster care system. When he didn’t want to be found, he didn’t exist. Careful to keep the chair from spinning or wheeling, Keith fit himself into the foot space, back pressed against the CPU tower.

Shiro released a sigh, stretching his cramped legs.

“I’m trying to regain control of the camera feed so you two can leave, but there’s too much interference. I can’t tell if it’s coming from my end or yours.” Almost immediately, she added, “Don’t bother with the back talk, I _know_ you can’t check. How is that download coming?”

Keith scoffed at the question. “I don’t know. I turned off the monitor. Will you just let us know when we can move?”

They waited.

“Uhm, guys?” She swallowed hard. Keith heard the hard thud of a mug against the surface of her desk.

“What is it, Pidge?” Shiro leaned his head toward Keith as he spoke, the sound of his voice echoing through his earpiece as his mic picked it up as well.

“They saw you. Someone’s coming to check out the office.”

_Fuck._ Keith sighed, throwing his head back in a fit of irritation and momentary forgetfulness, smacking his skull on the back corner of the tower. He grunted loudly, thumping his palm against the floor to keep from yelling.

“You ok?” Shiro asked, just under his breath.

He tried not to move again. “Yeah.” Reaching back he felt the spot where he’d hit. It was wet, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Who is it, Pidge?”

“I don’t know. Big guy, fuzzy mohawk.”

“They’re all big. What color’s his hair?”

“Uh, white?”

“Ulaz.” Keith and Shiro looked at each other as they simultaneously uttered the name. At least it wasn’t Antok, although, in all fairness, Keith’s read on him was that he operated under his own code of moral justice. If Antok were to come looking, he would find them. There would be some small detail that Keith had missed, some minuscule error and the man would have them sniffed out like the bloodhound he was. On the other hand, it wasn’t necessarily a given that Antok would actually turn them in.

Ulaz was just less perceptive.

Regardless of who was coming to check the office, no one would be able to see them. Keith was grateful for the blinds and could only assume that Zarkon didn’t want prying eyes over his shoulder either. As long as they stayed put, they were hidden from view.

“Why did you add ‘Dark Quintessence’ to the search queue?” Shiro leaned back on his elbows and looked over at Keith, moonlight cutting in through the window across the planes of his face.

“It’s what got us into this mess in the first place. I’d like to know more about it. Also, don’t laugh at me, but-”

“Uh, why would I?”

“Because you always laugh when I talk about the paranormal and I’d like you to take me seriously.”

Shiro remained silent.

“When you told me what happened, it sounded like a disturbance in the electromagnetic energy field. I remember when I reached the labs, the air felt almost, oh, I don’t know, _charged_. You said your watch stopped, but you’d replaced the battery a month or so prior. I remember going to Walmart to get it for you because you were really sick.” “Sick” was the kindest way he knew to put a hangover.

“Don’t remind me.” Shiro leaned his head back and looked over at him, smiling at the memory, but his expression quickly fell to grim contemplation. “But yeah. It changes… something… Do you think it could be a property of the compound that causes it?”

“I have no idea. You’d know better than me.” Keith trailed off. Someone tried the door handle outside the office, but it remained tightly locked. Noticing the blue glow of the powered tower reflecting off the wall, Keith reached over to cover it with his arm. A few seconds later, light from the hall shone through the glass, arcing across the facing wall. Anything more he was unable to see. “Pidge?”

“Working on it. Ulaz is it? He’s just peering in. I’m going to try to cut into the camera feed again. I think I was able to strengthen the connection enough.”

He shifted slightly, dropping his arm for a moment to keep from bumping the chair.

Ulaz tried the handle again.

_It’s locked, numbnuts._

The hollow ring of knuckles came rapping against the glass from the door along the length of the room with occasional clinks and clatters. His arm grew tired, and he shifted, careful not to move lest the shadows change. Shiro lay perfectly still, beads of sweat dripping from his temples.

They waited. Eventually, the noises stopped. Ulaz must have given up.

When Pidge finally gave them the clear, Keith crawled out from under the desk. He tolerated Shiro’s hand at the back of his head, feeling at the point of impact.

Shiro sucked in his breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, rubbing his fingertips together, sticky with blood.

“Did you really just ask me that? A month ago, you broke my face and burned my arm. Now, you’re asking me if I’m all right because I smacked my head on the corner of a metal computer tower? I’m fine.” He wanted to leave soon. The stress of the task at hand compounded by working with Shiro was getting to him. He turned the monitor on, the download nearly finished. Counting down with the timer on the screen, as soon as it was complete, he pulled the drive out and turned off the machine. His stomach growled in complaint as he rose to his feet.

Shiro stood behind him. Silent in his closeted processing of what Keith had said.

Still so very, very close, and the tightness in Keith’s chest had nothing to do with the stiffness of having been curled up under a desk. His heart hurt and his body wanted something the rest of him kept trying to push away.

He still didn’t know how deep the brainwashing went. Was it just the drugs and soft manipulation, or was there another component to it in that weaponized arm Shiro wore? Despite its guise as a high-tech prosthetic, it was, at its core, a weapon. Why would Zarkon give him such a thing if there weren’t a very good way of controlling him? Something about it didn’t quite add up.

That hand made Keith uneasy, yet it had been Shiro’s use of it that upset him, and he was square with himself on that point. The shock and the anguish of having so much raw hatred directed at him had thrown Keith into a pit of despair, but once past that, the teeth of his reality sank deep into his flesh. This wasn’t something that could be fixed with apologies when it wasn’t entirely either’s fault. Perspective was everything and the older he got, the more he understood that truth. The way Shiro viewed this whole situation was very different from the way he did, and he knew it.

Shiro slipped his left hand around Keith’s waist. “Come on, stop daydreaming. We’ve got to go.”

“Right.” It occurred to him that Shiro might actually be craving touch. He could very well have let himself be comfortable like that, but instead, he stepped away, walking the fine webs around rudeness and discomfort.

Keith grabbed his laptop from his room, and they made their way to the parking garage, Keith insisting Shiro hand over the keys to the Porsche.

“Someone needs to break in this ridiculous vehicle.” He extended his hand, waiting by the driver’s side door. “What did this thing even run you? Two hundred grand?”

“Well, it is a nice car.” Shiro reasoned.

Keith knew he’d guessed correctly and rolled his eyes. Shiro’s Porsche and Lance’s Maserati. “I thought you were trying to save money.”

“When I bought it, I didn’t have a reason to.”

“That sounds like a midlife crisis to me. You’re too young for that.”

“I’m driving. Get in the car.” Shiro pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Please?” He didn’t unlock the doors until Keith grudgingly made his way over to the passenger side.

“I have blood in my hair.” He was waiting for Shiro to whine at him. Surely it would happen, and he was not going to take that a second time. Keith ran a hand through the drying patch at the back of his head; his fingers stuck in the clumped strands. He’d have to wash it later.

“I know.”

Keith opened the door. “I might shed.”

“So?”

“I haven’t showered or brushed my hair in three days.” This was the truth, and his own staleness was beginning to wear on him. Climbing inside, he slammed the door shut behind him.

“I can tell.” Shiro leaned over, inhaling as Keith turned his head away. “You smell really, _really_ good.”

He said nothing in return but raised a brow and expelled his breath with a huff.

The closest food that was still open and not a McDonald’s happened to be Denny’s, but knowing Shiro frequented it had kept Keith away. Partway through his meal, Keith broke out his computer and after booting it up started downloading the files off the drive.

Out of curiosity, he opened one saved under “117-9875” that was labeled as design notes and started reading through the report. What he found there gave him pause. Turning his laptop around to face Shiro, he shoved it toward him across the Formica tabletop sticky, from dish water and syrup. Silently Keith stood and slipped into the booth beside Shiro, pointing to the second paragraph and tapping a nail on the screen.

“Have you ever heard of Marmora Manufacturing?” 

 

###  **iv.**

Although still awake, Keith had been resting his eyes for well over an hour. Someone, clearly after his own heart, had set up a target for knife throwing at one end of the common room and he’d decided to take advantage of it before it disappeared as it inevitably would when someone else wanted the dartboard behind it. After a little practice and admitting to himself that he was exhausted from lack of sleep over the previous two nights, he’d left the tip of his blade buried in the plywood to lie down across the length of the sofa, one arm cantilevered out over the armrest, using it as a pillow. Lance had sent him the best daily gift to date: a dark blue, vintage 1986 t-shirt with a crude graphic of a comet and the text, “Halley’s Comet: Coming Soon to a Galaxy Near You.” It was kitschy, fun, and space themed. He loved it.

Sliding a hand up under his shirt, he scratched at his belly and shifted to his side, sinking into the temper foam cushions. From the hall came two sets of footsteps and the grating harshness of a voice he immediately recognized as belonging to Sendak.

“-Ulaz told me he and Antok thought they saw something up in the boss’ office, but Ulaz couldn’t find anything when he went to check. Probably the vents again. We really need to get someone out to check the HVAC system. Everyone was accounted for too, well, mostly.” Sendak’s voice became louder as he neared. Keith assumed he stopped at the threshold with whomever he’d been speaking with.

“Mostly?” Thace asked.

“Well, we checked the video feeds after to double check. Shiro and Keith were in the north stairwell for a very long time.”

Thace pushed a breath of amusement through his nose. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but those two have definitely fucked.”

“Wait, _what_? No. There’s no way. Shiro’s not…” Sendak couldn’t say it.

“Not what? Gay? I am not in the business of speculating other people’s sexuality. It’s also none of yours.”

“But you just said-”

“When they’re standing beside each other, Shiro is always the one who steps in. It’s not new. Have you seen the way he looks at Keith? It’s familiar and close. I’ve seen them in the kitchen and lately, I keep expecting Shiro to pull something down off a top shelf and steal a kiss when he puts it in Keith’s hands. I don’t know what happened between them, but Shiro is pining, and Keith is making him work for it.”

Sendak hummed, a low rumble from his lungs as he exhaled. “You know, the boss was trying to get him to break off some relationship or another when he first arrived here. He was in pretty bad shape.”

“You sure you want to be talking about this here?” Thace drawled lazily.

“What do you mean?”

“Keith’s lying on that couch, and he’s probably listening.”

“Wait.” Sendak shuffled a little, and when he spoke again, he was even louder. “How do you know that’s Keith?”

“Look,” a hint of annoyance edged into Thace’s tone. He was the only one who ever spoke that way to Sendak, which Keith found amusing, mostly because Sendak never seemed to notice or if he did, he didn’t care. “He’s the only one here who has nearly two half-sleeves of tattoos and even if you didn’t know that, he’s got that large burn on his wrist.”

“Yep,” Keith interrupted, groggily. “He’s totally lying on the couch listening.” He pulled himself up, leaning over the armrest on his elbows as he rubbed the thick rheum from his eyes. He must have been there longer than he’d thought, maybe he had fallen asleep after all. Thace and Sendak stood still by the door; he looked at them while picking at the grit collected under his nails. “Well, now he’s up, but still listening.”

“So,” Sendak began, “what were you and Shiro doing in the stairwell?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would!”

Thace merely stood back and watched, apparently curious as to how this would go.

Stepping closer and looking down at Keith, Sendak continued, “Were the two of you…” his hands formed some obscene gesture that had Keith’s brows lifted high on his forehead.

At a different point in his life, a different situation even, he might have allowed himself to be overcome by a fury that seized him with her sinking claws. He would have thrown a punch or, even better, provoked until one was thrown his way first; Keith Kogane much preferred finishing fights to starting them. He didn’t particularly care what Sendak thought of him or Thace, although he liked Thace whereas he felt indifferent about the other. At this point, there was no real need to protect his wounded pride and precious masculinity.

He smiled at that thought. “ _Precious_ ,” really? Here he’d been going about his life thinking himself unable to choose his battles.

_Stop lying to yourself all the time._

Instead, he curbed the vitriol, willing himself to remain outwardly unperturbed. “Don’t be insulting. It’s really not appropriate to be fucking at work.” Let them think what they want. Standing, he made his way over to where he’d left his knife and pulled it free of the board. Sheathing it at his belt, he raised a hand in farewell as he left the room.

Checking the time, he realized he needed to head out anyway, or he was going to be late.

 

###  **v.**

Keith rode inland toward the desert. The trip wasn’t long, but desolation marked the route with little evidence of civilization aside from the crumbling asphalt and the occasional mile marker. Out here, in what amounted to the middle nowhere, the abandoned industrial park had been falling down since the late 1970s. It remained a haven only for transients, squatters, and road weary travelers with no other options.

It might have been a liminal space, an anomaly carved out of the linear flow of Earth time reality.

Keith had come here before on numerous occasions. Five stories of whitewashing peeled off the cement facade like birch, curling up from decades of baking in the sun. He parked his motorcycle inside the loading dock, right next to the chartreuse MINI Cooper tucked away just inside the second bay. A ghost of its former self, the building represented a tombstone in the graveyard of American progress, one of those places left for dead if only because it could be and no one cared. No windows remained intact and no doors locked, except for one.

Surprisingly, the architecture had allowed for a basement, although that might have been a mistake the engineering crew had overlooked. The shallow water table caused the foundation to visibly crumble from exposure. Keith made his way through the emergency stairwell to the rusted metal door, once painted that sort of dirty industrial avocado green that marred the decade of its birth, now with bubbles and furrows of coppery rust at the hinges and around the knob. He gripped the edge of the small window and standing on tiptoe peered through the wire mesh glass to the narrow, descending staircase. With a knuckle, he tapped out his call sign on the door and waited for a response. Counting a full seven seconds, he was about to try again, when he heard the expected reply then someone keying open the door.

Pidge stood before him, her hands on her hips, staring him down sternly and shoving her glasses up her nose with her middle finger. “Password.”

“Rosebud. May I enter?”

“Yeah, okay, I like that,” she winked.

No matter what password Keith invented, and it was often some cinematic or pop culture reference, she’d never said no. He pulled the door shut behind him, locking it and throwing the bolt before following her down the narrow stairwell.

The light fixtures buzzed and crackled with an electrical hum. Occasional sparks from exposed lines dropped from the unenclosed ceiling. That the power functioned was a miracle courtesy of Hunk. He had installed a generator several years back when they’d used this place as a base of operations for a job farther out into the desert. Stagnant water pooled on the old tile floor, eating away the grout, their boots dredging up the odor of stagnancy from the brownish liquid as they made their way through the lair of what was, to all appearances, an underground medical facility.

The surgical wing was not so much a wing as it was a cramped chamber with a single examination bed stationed under a flood lamp casting its sulfuric lens of dingy haze. Along one wall were some metal cabinetry and a sink, although the water supply had long ago been cut off. A stereomicroscope on a base with casters had been covered and pushed aside into a corner. Several rolling carts remained stationed around the table full of equipment: scalpels, scissors, probes, needles for syringes and needles for sutures, tweezers, tongs, and multiple implements neither could discern a use for. Over four decades of dirt, grime, and neglect blanketed everything.

Keith hoisted himself up sideways onto the bed, reaching for a nearby cart to set his computer. Pidge pulled a stool up beside him and opened her machine, setting aside several handwritten pages tucked beneath the screen and the keyboard. Leaning over to view her screen, Keith could see that she’d already made notes on the open documents and had taken the time to meticulously outline and map event sequences.

“First here’s Hunk’s report on Shiro’s, uh, shall we say, injectable slurry?” She handed the lined pages to him.

Hunk’s tight and precise hand in narrow graphite strokes covered the notepaper front and back. Most of it was technical jargon, but he’d boxed the important parts in using red pencil. Steroids, opioids, a beta blocker. Keith grimaced.

“Yeah, me too,” Pidge remarked, “but hey! At least you know he’s coming off of it.” She turned her attention to her screen. “I’ve gone through everything you gave me, and there’s a big gaping hole where Marmora Manufacturing should be.”

“I figured. I hadn’t heard of it before last night.” He’d done a few brief searches but turned up little aside fro the fact the company existed at all. He found it odd that there was so little information on it. The profile on the very scant website named Hagar Marmora as the principal and founder back in the mid-1960s, but he could find no further information on that person anywhere.” Keith scratched absently at the fragile scar tissue of his healing wrist.

Pidge gently separated his hands. “Yeah, well, it didn’t look like there was anything missing from your copy of the server files either. Let’s just start with Shiro, and we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Makes sense.”

Squinting through her glasses, she scanned something on her screen. “We’re going to be there very soon.” She sucked her lips over her teeth and pressed them together, looking over at him thoughtfully as if she had something to say but wasn’t entirely sure how to phrase it.

“Right. So, 117-9875, Takashi Shirogane.” He pushed his hair back off his forehead with both hands and exhaled loudly before clearing his throat. It suddenly seemed pointless, putting all this effort in and for what, some futile effort in reconstructing an earlier sense of his life through hope and dream and memory? The reality was something desperate and almost bleak. He wanted a previous version of Shiro that no longer existed.

Pidge climbed up next to him sideways on the exam bed, legs dangling over the side and cautiously wrapping her arm around his back, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, whatever happens.”

She searched his face, her light amber eyes settling on his and holding his gaze. Shadows cast curtains over her features from the dim overhead light.

Unsure how else to respond, he sighed. “I can’t let him go.” This was what he hadn’t wanted to face, and the words sounded pointless, released into the space between them. He’d expended so much of his energy taking out his latent frustration and desperation through whatever means he could. It hadn’t solved anything or helped him get through any aspect of the grieving process other than to make sure he wasn’t sitting around alone with his thoughts for six very long months. He’d _used_ Lance for some of that. What kind of a person even did that? How had he decided that so long as he was upfront about his purpose that would make it okay? Nothing about it was _okay_. Of course, Shiro had left him. He was selfish, and his impulsive tendencies made him careless in how he treated his friends. No wonder Shiro had questioned his motivations through all those conversations with Zarkon.

“You’re brooding. Stop it. Whatever you’re thinking about, you’ll just work yourself up over something that probably isn’t true.”

He stared down at his hands, gripping the sides of his laptop, knuckles white with tension. Pidge knew him too well.

“Hey.” She kicked his booted foot with her own to grab his attention. “Who was it that said we are always stronger together? Was that Shiro?”

“I think it was Allura.”

“Allura, huh? That’s remarkably insightful of her.”

“Not really. I think she’d be a very good leader if she were less militant in her ideals and tried to learn a little empathy.”

Pidge rubbed his back as she pulled her arm away. “Regardless, it’s good advice.”

It was what they were doing at that very moment.

“You ready to do this?” She pulled her computer over to her lap.

“Yeah. So. Shiro.”

“I think Zarkon needed a guinea pig to test his new tech and Shiro just sort of fell into his lap. He already knew we were going after the production mechanism for the Dark Quintessence and after patching into Allura’s feed, it looks like he figured out Shiro was going to go after the product itself. I’m not sure why they were doing that though. We’re much better at the break in part than he is.” Pidge looked over at Keith.

Rooting around in a pocket, he leaned back on one elbow and balancing his computer between his knees to emerge with a crushed pack of cigarettes. Tapping one out and taking the filter between his lips, he then searched a second time until he found his lighter. He inhaled deeply as he lit it, and then expelled a ring of smoke, following its path as it floated across the room. “Allura promised him an extra pay cut if he managed to bring it back.”

“But he doesn’t need the money, does he?”

Keith shook his head, humming to the negative. “He told me it was large enough he felt that if he did that one thing, he’d be able to quit this job.” He wasn’t going to tell her why unless she asked. The continual core collapse filled the hollowness inside. Even a black hole wasn’t _empty_.

“Okay.” Pidge typed quickly into the outline document on her screen. “Moving along, Zarkon sent in his retrieval crew to pick up anything left after the explosion. Somehow Shiro survived, although I’m not entirely sure how.” Pulling up the image she pushed her laptop over so Keith could get a better look.

He groaned in disgust. “Pidge, can you not?” Unable to stop himself, he stared at it and immediately had to swallow back down the contents of his empty stomach. It was Shiro as he’d been pulled from the wreckage of the building with blood, gore, and bits of grit and plaster.

“It’s fascinating though. His entire arm is just dead. The flesh is rotten and falling off the bone where it was exposed to a high concentration. At lower concentrations, like you can see here,” Pidge pointed, “where it doesn’t go all the way through, the tendons and veins are all still in place. Even less just seem to be like acid burns. That’s what the scar on his face probably is. It just ate out his skin.”

Keith pointedly refused to look. “From what I could tell, Zarkon was originally going to use Sendak as his guinea pig for experimenting with the cybernetic technology he’d recently stolen from Marmora Manufacturing, but I think the appeal of taking one of Allura’s won him over.” According to the reports, Sendak’s arm was an older model anyway, and it would have been difficult and possibly detrimental to him to have to undergo the surgeries required to reconfigure the points of attachment to a new device. “Shiro just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And there it is. You brought it up first. Marmora.”

“Well, I saw it in the file when I went through it with Shiro, and all I was able to come up with is that it’s a private tech company that used to primarily work as a government contractor, mostly doing stuff with military drones and drug engineering for disease control. Those two things don’t really go together until you realize they’re making biomechatronic prosthetic devices.” After a long drag, he flicked the ash onto the floor, part of the ember breaking off with it. For a moment, he scrutinized it, watching as the bright orange fizzled out with a tendril of smoke when it struck the wet floor.

“You got the basics, but it starts to get wild from there. The split from Galran Technologies happened back in the 80s when Zarkon’s wife took her share of the company along with their son and left.”

Keith laughed. “This sounds like the beginning of a modern gothic romance.”

“You would know. You are a gothic romance.” She pressed her lips together in a devious smile.

“What?”

“Hagar Marmora is Daibazaal Zarkon’s ex-wife.”

“No way!” he exclaimed, though he knew it was probably true.

Pidge broke into a grin, “This woman is absolutely amazing. I’m not kidding when I say I’d love to meet her. She just vanished, reappearing a few years later with this company based out in the desert in a beautiful, new facility.” She pulled up a file of images for Keith to scroll through. He even thought he recognized some of the faces from Galran Tech as he went through but wasn’t immediately able to place them all. Kolivan was in the background of many of the corporate shots, and he wondered what the connection was there. “She has her team of scientists helping her, but the brain behind the operation is hers. She holds a doctorate in biochemical engineering, I started reading her thesis-”

“Of course you did.”

“I didn’t have enough time to really get into it. She just,” Pidge paused, thinking. “She’s a philanthropist: donates to state schools, science programs. Then of course there are all her government contracts. Here.” She reached over and navigated to another file with a handful of photos of a tall, stately woman with straight platinum hair, worn down in a center part, and a man to all appearances, her younger, masculine duplicate.

“That guy looks like a pale Fabio.”

“Doesn’t he?”

Keith scrolled back through to the pictures of the woman. He thought he remembered something. “Did you show these to Hunk?”

“Not yet, why?”

“I think Hunk had said Zarkon was showing his exhibits to a lady with white hair. At the gala. I just wondered if this was her?”

“Now that you mention it, I remember that. It’s entirely possible. Marmora is the third player.”

Keith kept scrolling. The lady Marmora hardly changed through the ages. Her face might have been a little more lined in the recent pictures, and her mode of dress evolved with the fashion world, but that was about it. He’d started with the most recent photos and worked his way back, clicking between several from the mid-80s, then navigating through what Pidge had found of her with her ex-husband. Zarkon’s public façade was pleasant enough, but he never seemed particularly happy.

He stopped at the founding of Galran Technologies with its smaller subsidiary branch, Marmora Group. On the banner were the logos for both. For the first time, he saw that the Marmora Group used as its logo the same stylized number five as was on that saber in Zarkon’s office, that Keith had seen on Thace’s belt knife, and that was hiding under the wrappings around the guard of his own dagger.

Keith did not believe in coincidence.

“Pidge?” He jabbed violently at the screen. “What the hell?” After one last drag, he killed the ember on the underside of the examination bed and dropped the butt to the ground.

She frowned, “I don’t know. I’m still working on that.”

“No.” He pushed up his pant leg and slid out the blade, tugging at the twill tape and pulling it free from the crossguard, handing it to her, pommel first. “This.”

“I know!” her brows came together in a wrinkle of concern. She didn’t take the blade. “All I came up with was a list of employees.” She pulled her computer back over and clicked through her folders until she found what she was looking for. Scrolling down, she stopped and highlighted a name before passing it back over. “That’s the most interesting one.”

For a very long time, Keith stared at it. The generator hummed from farther down the hall. Somewhere water dripped into a puddle on the floor with a splatter. “I’d always assumed the blade came from my dad.”

“A-S-S, U, and me.” Pidge’s voice sounded an echo through the room in her singsong chant. “That’s your mom, isn’t it?”

“That’s my mom,” he confirmed.

“Your _alien_ mom.”

He fixed his features in an unreadable mask. Pidge was never going to let go of that.

Pressing her hands to her sinuses, she breathed in and exhaled. “Okay, I’m sorry. However, your mom was on the chemical engineering team responsible for creating the first prototypes of the substance that eventually became what we’ve been calling Dark Quintessence. They were trying to beat Alforse to the life-giving properties of the Quintessence-”

“Which doesn’t work anyway, and instead causes immediate cellular necrosis if it touches you and cancer from secondary exposure?” Keith interjected.

Considering this, Pidge nodded. “That’s one way to put it, yep.”

“What else?”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Okay, go on.”

“Galran Technologies was founded when Daibazaal and Hagar left Altea Industries. Go back a little farther in the images, and you’ll see all of them together.” She pointed to the folder where Keith had stopped scrolling. “Hagar got a little greedy it seems and thought she could make the product better and faster. It gets confusing because all of them call it ‘Quintessence,’ even though each company’s version is different. I guess the first patent gets the name. The file says they had equipment failure during production. It can’t be mechanized. The entire process needs to be completed by hand. No one knows why it’s like this, but something about it, and I quote, ‘alters the perception of time to extreme delay.’ It also kills batteries.”

“I read all that, but you don’t really know why. Do you?”

“Not really, no. It’s incredibly advanced. No wonder Zarkon took it.

“Wait. He-“ Keith paused haltingly, “of course he took it.”

“After all the scientists on the original team were dead.”

Keith hopped down and picked up the tape to re-wrap his dagger, winding it flat and tight against the faint blue glow of the embedded sigil. His mother had died of cancer, it had been everywhere in her body. Inoperable. Terminal. His father had sat with him the night they’d found out, held him close and tight before tucking him into bed. He hadn’t understood.

“It wasn’t like radiation poisoning or something where the effects are known and detectable, the sort of damage it did to their bodies couldn’t be quantified until it became manifest. That work, that one specific project killed everyone who worked closely on it, at least at the beginning. It sounds like Zarkon was able to figure out a way to work around that.”

“Marmora wants it back.” Pidge’s eyes were hidden by the reflection of the fluorescent lights, but her head bobbed slightly as she scanned the open document.

“Of course she does, especially now since Zarkon’s had time to study and perfect it. I can’t imagine what kind of job that was to steal it and everything pertaining to the stuff. That’s some hardcore revenge right there.”

“She’s serious about it though. I intercepted a call yesterday afternoon between Allura and the son. His name is Lotor, by the way. He said they’re willing to pay a lot of money for the Dark Quintessence if Allura can get her hands on it.”

He narrowed his eyes and suppressed a snigger through his teeth with amusement. “You just can’t leave her be, can you? How is she going to do that?”

Pidge lifted her shoulders with her brows and let them fall. “Beats me. He said he knew she has someone on the inside.”

“Right, and who the hell would that be?”

“I think he means you.”

 

###  **vi.**

The lightweight foam soles of their sneakers pounded against the pavement as they made their way north along the highway. In the distance to their right, the sunrise set the mountain peaks aflame. To their left, the ocean encroached upon the beach, consuming the cove with the tide. Shiro had been pestering Keith for days about buying new trainers and having finally done it, he had no regrets. Having become so accustomed to tactical running boots, he’d forgotten what it was like to run in anything else. Fleet of foot and sure in his stride, he flew along the highway. Shiro had to work to keep up.

He couldn’t help but think about how much faster Lance was than Shiro. Lance always insisted they run along the water, his long legs reaching through the surf. Sometimes they’d run barefoot, their toes gripping the wet sand as they traveled the shoreline. The comparison wasn’t entirely fair; Shiro wasn’t a runner, but he tried.

Keith lifted his shirt up to wipe the perspiration from his face, having just finished filling Shiro in on the intel from Pidge.

“I’m going to do it,” Shiro said, between ragged, measured breaths.

“Do what?”

“Steal the Dark Quintessence.”

_Incredible_. Keith fixed his sight on a point in the distance ahead. He finally spoke after several long minutes of silence, his tone calm and quiet. “Who do you plan to steal it for? Allura? Lotor? Sell it back to Zarkon like some huge ‘Fuck you?’ There’s only so much bargaining you can do with something like this. You failed to get it the last time you tried; you almost died, and you lost your arm.”

Waves crashed with a cruel force into the bed of the coastline, droplets of spray carried out to the road on the breeze and collected on their skin. The occasional car passed them by with a roar, the vortex effect lashing Keith’s hair around his head and tugging at his shirt.

Shiro slowed, but Keith sprinted ahead.

“KEITH!” Shiro bellowed from somewhere behind him now. He heard his name clip and die in the air. He stopped and leaned over to rest for a few moments, arms braced above his knees.

He waited for Shiro to reach him, head raised as he watched.

“I need to finish the job.” The response was simple and concise.

He straightened his back as he stared up at Shiro, not wanting to admit that those words had triggered this irrational rage welling up within. With every ounce of self-control he could muster, he pushed it down and buried it. “No, you don’t. Circumstances change, people change. Why would you want to put yourself back in that situation? It’s not worth it.” He searched Shiro’s face, but he didn’t know what he was even looking for. He wondered if this feeling of borrowed time was real or if he was deluding himself. “This, right now? This is the point at which we wash our hands of this shit and walk away. Before we can’t. Before you can’t. Before I can’t.”

“This was my last job. I’m going to finish it and get that payout I was promised eight months ago. Then I can leave and rebuild what’s left of my life.” Shiro stood close enough he had to tilt his head down to meet Keith’s eyes.

Keith remained perfectly still, back stiff and shoulders squared. “Where are you going to go?”

Shiro pressed his lips together and shook his head, resolved and distant though physically within reach. “I don’t know yet. Away from here.”

“Okay.” Trying to keep his tone neutral, he turned away, ready to continue his run, preferably alone. It was another plea, a cry for something, but his patience was finite, and this kind of beating around sapped what little remained. Shiro grabbed his hand and held him back.

“Look. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to begin to reconcile with you. I keep trying and you just push me away, with good reason, too. I get it.” His desperation rode the vein that strained through his voice, words cracking and breaking, caught in the air and carried away. “I get you. I make you uncomfortable. This,” he held out his right arm, turned it over and flexed his fingers, “makes you uncomfortable. I just- there must be a reason to keep trying. You’re letting me try, but I- Maybe I should stop.”

Wiping his forehead awkwardly on the shoulder of his tank, Keith turned back around, one hand still in Shiro’s grasp. He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks as he brushed the hair out of his eyes. “No, you don’t get it.” It occurred to Keith that this was exactly what Lance had meant out on the beach as they’d trodden through the wet sand. He was here for Shiro, not to plan some great revenge or to make peace and find some closure. Those reasons weren’t untrue, but they were second to the primary objective.

For Keith, this was entirely about Shiro, ever incapable of saving himself.

“Keith-”

“I hate the way you do this to me. I despise myself for being this way.” Before he could check himself to keep it in, he blurted the words out, immediately shaking his hand free and covering his mouth.

“Me too.” Shiro leaned against the guardrail. “It’s hard.”

Keith nodded. “What do you want?” Noting Shiro’s confusion, he clarified his statement, “From me.” Receiving no response, he continued, “Neither of us owes the other an apology. I don’t expect one, and I’m not going to give one. I’m not sorry.”

With a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, Shiro side-eyed him. “You never are. It’s one of the many things I like about you. Besides, apologies are meaningless if they’re insincere.”

Keith sat down beside Shiro and took his hand, fingers interlocking, squeezing. “There’s no point. I don’t have a fix for this. The one truth I’ll never know is me and you.”

Shiro rubbed the pad of his thumb over the small symbol on the web space beside Keith’s index finger. That was there for grounding. Their shoulders grazed, and Keith leaned in, pulling Shiro’s hand onto his lap.

_I’m not ready to give you up._

Tilting his head to the side, Shiro looked out past the road, distant and unfocused into the evergreen forest opposite where the highway. Keith had given up trying to decipher his thoughts. Going after the Dark Quintessence was unnecessary madness, yet somehow Shiro had it in his head that finishing that job would bring him some kind of closure.

“Do you think we could try again? After?”

The set of Shiro’s perfectly chiseled brows with his eyes full of hope set Keith’s heart to aching. _Yes._ He looked down at the healing burns on his wrist. The answer didn’t change. The rush of blood to his head spelled a symphony of electrified chaos, drawn in by everything Shiro was. He turned his focus inward, to his sparking libido, from the twinge in his groin to his sweaty palms.

“Keith?” Shifting, Shiro pulled his hand away and swiveled on the seat of his compression pants.

The movement jarred Keith to attention. “Yes,” he replied under his breath, with all the world as his witness.

 

###  **vii.**

“Yeah. Just call the meeting, we’ll be there in,” Keith looked down at his watch and did some quick math, “three hours.” He held the phone between his ear and shoulder while tugging on his boot and tightening the laces before winding them around his calf and tying them off.

“What about that other thing?” Pidge asked.

Keith set the phone down and pressed “speaker,” before reaching under his bed for the second boot and repeating the process. “I’m going to take care of it right now, hence the three hours.”

“Sounds good. We’ll say 14:30 then?”

“Perfect. Thanks, Pidge.” Ending the call, he stood up and straightened his clothes. Even if he found Lance’s style edging toward the couture end of “metrosexual,” he had to admit, every single garment fit and fit well. Out of curiosity, he twisted around and checked his profile. The leather pants clung like a glove to his slender frame, leaving little to the imagination. Placing the flats of his palms on his hips, he slid them down over his non-existent curves.

Not too bad. He immediately slipped his shirt on and yanked it down. His musculature was solid, and if not well-defined, it was defined enough. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he decided he needed to remember to thank Lance for this particular mailing.

With about forty minutes before his first scheduled appointment of the day, he grabbed everything he thought he would need and packed it up in his bike. Upon arriving at the Ivory Tower, he parked in his old space, still open and marked with his employee number. No one had bothered to remove it. He had wondered if returning here would feel like home or a betrayal of self. It ended up being neither of these things.

He lit a cigarette, though almost as soon as he did, the black Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet pulled up beside him.

Rolling down the window, Shiro hung out over the door. “You should think about quitting.” He plucked his aviators off his nose, taking the earpiece between his teeth as he got out and locked up.

“Probably,” Keith shrugged. For several long seconds, he filled his lungs before expelling the smoke out the side of his mouth.

Shiro shook his head and hung his sunglasses on the front of his button-down shirt, accentuating the sculptural form of his chest as he extended his hand.

Keith yearned to bury his face in that ample plushness. Instead, he handed over the cigarette, regarding him with a questioning brow but otherwise placid expression.

Shiro cautiously inhaled, and then coughed it all out. He bent himself over and wheezed through his teeth as his lungs heaved at his poor effort.

“Smooth one, rookie.” Grinning, Keith leaned back against his motorcycle.

“Ah well.” Shiro passed back the smoke.

“If it makes you feel worse, I did quit while you were playing dead, but then life got complicated again, and it’s a better addiction than alcohol, hard drugs, or hookup apps.” His delivery was deliberately inscrutable coupled with the hope that the comic value of his words outweighed the truth of the statement. “I’d rather die of cancer than an overdose or venereal disease.”

Snorting back disdain, Shiro buried his hands in his back pockets. “STDs are only a concern because ‘safe sex’ isn’t a thing you practice.”

“I’m still clean.” There was nothing more Keith could add. They still had a few minutes. He puffed on his cigarette. “You look good,” he offered. Shiro could easily have competed with Lance, a serious contender to rival the king. Always a sharp dresser, he had arrayed himself in fitted slacks that accentuated his shapely legs, black loafers, and a charcoal blazer over a medium gray, poplin dress shirt unbuttoned just a little too far.

Keith also couldn’t help but notice Shiro had seen the barber that morning.

Shiro saw him stare, misinterpreting the reason. “You could have come with me.”

“Nah. I like it like this.” Keith flipped his hair, continuing his impassive scrutiny of Shiro’s brawn and appeal.

After a lull, Shiro spoke again, “Actually, I do too.”

Not wanting to finish, and needing to move before he found himself entrenched in the mounting warmth at his center and the saliva pooling on his tongue, Keith crushed the remainder of his cigarette beneath his heel, grinding it into the asphalt. Jerking his chin toward the gate, he collected his helmet. “Let’s go.” He turned and strode toward entrance, one fist raised to shoulder height. He felt Shiro’s eyes on him, sizing him up with a rapacious appetite. Catching up with his long stride, Shiro bumped Keith’s fist with his own. At least it felt like they were on the same team again.

Allura awaited them in her office. Someone had raised the drapes and opened the windows, drawing some of the stuffiness out of the old space. She sat behind her desk, laptop open and typing with the rhythmic tide of thought, eyelids lowered as she considered her task, the light from the screen reflecting off her dark skin in a luminous glow. Her long, silver hair hung loose in tresses of wavy starlight behind her shoulders, parted in the center and held back from her face with the mother-of-pearl inlay combs she always wore.

Keith and Shiro stood before her desk, forced to wait, Keith posed in standard defiance, one hand on a hip, and Shiro beside him like a soldier at ease. Behind her, the portrait of her late father surveyed them with a regal eye. He looked tired.

_Me too._

Allura sighed, loud and long, finally looking up from her screen. “Have you at least considered my offer?”

“Not really,” Keith shook his head.

“I recognize that my actions have hurt you and for that I am sorry. I grossly misjudged you. Perhaps both of you.” Her eyes, glinting chips of icy topaz, flashed from one to the other.

Shiro shifted his weight to a more rigid stance, his features hardening to a steeled resolve, “Does the original offer still stand?”

“The offer I made you?” She quirked a pale brow and raised her fingers with their lacquered nails to her lips

He raised and dropped his chin once, stone-faced in what Keith recognized as calculated gauging of the present situation.

Before she could respond, however, Keith stepped forward, leaning over her desk with fluid, feline agility. He was not afraid of her, nor was he willing to wait around any longer for their conversation to get to the point. Resting his forearms on the dark mahogany surface, he peered up at her. “Look, I have it on good authority that Marmora Manufacturing contacted you about procuring the Dark Quintessence.”

“Go on.”

“We can negotiate the base price now, and incidentals before delivery. As I said on the phone, I’m not interested in returning to payroll, so forget about that. I want my 75% payout on paid leave and expect that in my account tonight. Your HR department doesn’t know what they’re doing, so make sure that happens.” He stood up and cracked his shoulders. “As for the Dark Quintessence, it would appear that Marmora wants it back, thereby increasing the value of the product. Now we can do a few things for you with regard to deliverables, it just depends on what exactly you want. There are three components to this: there is the formula, the product in a very limited quantity, and the records of the production and mechanisms on the internal server, which can be destroyed along with the backup files.” Without breaking eye contact, he had to stop to breathe. Allura squinted at him, and he had the impression she was waiting for him to reveal his motive to see if she had guessed correctly.

It was actually Shiro’s motive, but that was a technicality.

“All of it,” she said.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadow encroaching at the edge of the desk. Shiro was at his side, having caught the train of his thought, remarkably on schedule.

“3.5 million.” Shiro crossed his arms over his chest, his blazer pulling across his back and tightening around his arms as his muscles flexed.

Keith bit his cheek to remain silent and pretended to vacantly examine his hands. “Don’t undercut your worth. I’d say at least 6.” He’d had no idea what Shiro had originally agreed to do the job for or what was even reasonable to ask. No one balked at his suggestion though; it must not have been too far off the mark.

“4.” Allura shot back.

“No, 6.” Keith looked over at her blandly, tilting forward slightly as he raised a thigh and edged himself onto the desk, disrupting a pile with his knee in an avalanche of papers. Shiro caught them before they fluttered off and handed them to Allura. “It’s nothing to you.”

“4.5. You have to budge eventually.” She smirked, taking the proffered stack and rising up from the comfort of her armchair to meet him.

“5.” Shiro insisted. “We’ll do it for 5. The money goes into an escrow account, and once it’s there, we do the job.

“Deal.” Allura spread her arms out before her. “I knew we could come to an agreement.”

Extending his hand, Keith flashed his teeth. “I’ll have my broker contact you this afternoon.”

“How do I know you aren’t going to sell it directly back to Marmora?” she asked, standing and gripping his hand.

“You don’t.” Keith cocked a brow, and Allura’s twitched as they shook on the deal. “One thing I’ve learned in this line of business. There are never guarantees.”

 

###  **viii.**

Pidge stared at them from the bottom of the stairwell, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “So by three hours, what you really meant was two hours, forty-”

“Seven minutes and fifty-eight seconds.” Keith finished, stopping his watch. “Give or take. Seconds and conversation rarely align.”

Shiro pulled the hatch after them and twisted the handle to engage the seal. He followed Keith’s silent trek down the staircase, footfalls connecting to each slat with a soft thud and a creak. “Traffic was light,” he added, helpfully.

Keith didn’t know how exactly, but several years ago, Pidge had produced a deed of ownership over a moderately sized underground survival shelter. Based upon the simple, clean, mid-century modern furnishings, and pale blue color scheme, it appeared to be Cold War era. Nuclear fallout shelters hadn’t changed much in the past 65 years though. Underground tunnels of galvanized, corrugated steel were exactly the same as they had been. The 30-degree incline to deflect gamma radiation ran low and narrow down twenty feet to the secondary blast door currently left open from where Pidge had been speaking. The first chamber, technically a mud room, contained the toilet, laundry, and decontamination shower, also comprising a sizeable workspace.

The interior of the structure had been painted white and the lighting updated to LEDs at daylight color temperature. Theoretically, the water tanks were flushed and filtered at the appropriate intervals and the systems checked for functionality, but Keith had never concerned himself much with it; he often brought bottled water, though this time he’d forgotten to replenish the stash in the saddle bags on his bike. Hunk had always taken care of the appliances here anyway; it was his baby, an entire stand-alone complex that he could maintain, repair, and upgrade to his own specifications.

The one sticking point had always been the sleeping arrangements: four full-sized bunk beds. If they had to stay the night for whatever reason, this meant one of two things, one person had to sleep on the sofa, or two people had to share. The living room with the sofa, kitchen, and television was located in the area past the beds, and beyond that was another fairly sizeable space with the utilities and Pidge’s computer setup where at least most of the generated heat could be pumped outside through the intake.

“So?” Pidge asked, picking up a box of tools and papers wider than her body.

“He did it.” Keith jerked his thumb toward Shiro, eyes darting to the ceiling with a soft sigh and shake of his head.

“You don’t have to be involved. I’ll just do it myself.”

“Right. Like last time.” Hunk had appeared, taking the box from Pidge’s hands and blocking the path to the interior of the structure.

Pidge adjusted her glasses with a swift jab. “He’s got a point.”

“There is no ‘I’ in ‘team.’” Lance yelled from farther down the pipe.

“He’s saying you made a shitty leadership decision,” Hunk translated for Shiro, shifting to balance the box on his hip.

“So here’s the real question, then.” Keith cracked his shoulders and stepped aside, shoving his hands deep into his back pockets and rocking on his feet. “Shiro?”

“I’m going to finish my last assignment and call it, but I can’t do it by myself.” He licked his lips, nervously. “The payout on delivery of the Dark Quintessence, production mechanism, and destruction of remaining files on the internal Galran Tech servers is 5 million,”

Pidge whistled, “Somebody sure knows how to cut a deal.”

Lance appeared behind Hunk, resting his forearm on the other man’s shoulder and leaning over the box, “Not. Impressed. With her net profit margins, that’s pennies. Last year alone, Altea Industries was at 33%. That’s huge.”

Shiro cocked a brow with a tight-lipped, simpering smile, spreading his hands, palms up. “You would know.”

“I would,” Lance agreed. “I would. Split five ways it’s a tidy sum. It’s certainly more than my yearly salary, even factoring in bonuses. So why was she willing to dole out that much? This is a basic heist.”

“She wants to make sure we collect it for her and don’t sell it to Marmora for more.”

Hunk raised his free hand. “Hold up now, Shiro. Why does Marmora want it?”

“Pidge!” Keith exclaimed, ignoring but not missing Lance and Shiro’s appraising eyes as he slid his hands out of his pockets and shrugged off his jacket, “I thought you were going to get Hunk and Lance up to speed before we arrived.”

Lance lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a dismissive gesture. “Must not have been important.”

“I got through your meeting with Allura, but we hadn’t covered all the other points yet. The internet went out.”

“You could have told us while I fixed it,” Hunk shook his head, exasperated.

Keith filled in for her. “The short of it is Zarkon’s ex-wife was developing the Dark Quintessence, and he stole it from her when they divorced. She wants it back, and apparently, Zarkon’s son has been on Allura about procuring it for him. He must know she tried to get it.”

Letting out a loud groan, Hunk shifted against the doorframe. “Zarkon steals the best ideas from everyone else. I don’t think the man has ever had an original idea in his entire life. That’s the way this always goes. Not that Allura has original ideas either, but at least most of her products available on the market were designed by her scientists; they weren’t stolen.”

Shiro hung back, leaning against the washer. Keith found his gaze arresting in its scrutiny and quietude. The dynamic shift that had seemed sudden had, in fact, occurred during his absence, and his demeanor told Keith he understood that. He had forfeited his place within the group, and he wasn’t going to say what needed to be said next. The leadership job no longer belonged to him.

“The real question, without making any further assumptions, is simply, ‘Are you in?’” Keith folded his arms and looked at each of them.

Pidge narrowed her eyes and adjusted her glasses. “I’m going to guess that you and Shiro already reached an agreement over this because I’m having a hard time seeing you decide to do this on your own.”

“Correct.”

“It was a grave disaster,” Hunk looked right at Shiro when he spoke those words. Keith almost laughed, but he stopped himself. The joke wasn’t very funny. “But, I wouldn’t mind finishing it for the sake of completion.”

“Easy money,” Lance chimed in. “Pidge?”

“This time, we would be going in with all the intel,” she reasoned, “We do know where everything is, right?”

Keith frowned, but Shiro nodded. “I know where the sample unit and production details are kept. All we’d have to do is go in, get it, kill the servers, and get out.”

“It could very well be some kind of a trap. One party has it, two parties want it. However we’d like to consider ourselves, Shiro and I belong first and foremost to Allura. Any way the Galran Tech security crowd looks at us, we used to be her agents, and there’s nothing we can do about that. Additionally, I think it’s fairly obvious that Marmora has people hanging out with the GT crowd too. I just don’t know who they all are, aside from Thace, and I’m sure he’s not alone.” It probably was a trap. Maybe there was a way they could direct the attention elsewhere. Keith let his breath out slowly.

“You’re still thinking,” Hunk observed. “What is it?”

“Would it be worthwhile to create a diversion through a decoy?”

Shiro, Lance, and Pidge exchanged a long stare through the echoing silence of the steel casement, from which Pidge, though her consternation, finally uttered, “Let’s take the lions.”

Turning the suggestion over in his head, Keith nodded slowly, scratching his jaw idly before popping his index finger into his mouth and clicking the nail between his teeth. Something about it was too clean, too perfect, yet no job that looked simple from the outset had ever turned out to be. This time it could be better, would be. He didn’t have to go in like sticky napalm and light the whole place up to a conflagration. One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead, the hum of the ballast a constant reminder of the fact that last time he hadn’t been fast enough. Seconds and minutes were slipping away from him more quickly than he could keep them in his grasp. He had to do it differently.

Besides, Shiro had lost the privilege of flying solo. This time, it would be Lance.

Hunk and Pidge would steal the lion figurines while Keith and Shiro would go to the labs to retrieve the Dark Quintessence. Lance’s assignment was to short all the servers, he’d need to get inside the server room and into Zarkon’s office. Pidge wanted to try out the new USB killers she’d built, but she thought the best place for her would be with Hunk, as she needed to monitor the team and the easy part of the job, in theory, would be breaking into that unmonitored case in Gallery 12. They picked the date based on the security schedule and Zarkon’s availability. He was presently back but would be out of the country again toward the end of the following week.

The timing was perfect. They had 12 days to prepare.

Shiro and Pidge went off to map the complex and determine the best routes for each team. Not that they could go far. Lance helped Hunk with the last of Pidge’s boxes, leaving Keith alone. He spent a few minutes looking over the chemical stores in the closet. His 1971 copy of the Anarchist Cookbook sat on the top shelf, with the binding taped together and pencil notes through most of it, correcting the content. He found the greatest joke in the book to be the book itself. Clumsy and amateur in its execution, it was also laughable to the point of wondering who in their right mind would take such a thing seriously. It sat at the bottom of a stack of manuals centered on the theme of building incendiary devices. Books with better recipes at least.

If they needed him to, he could make an explosive diversion. He didn’t want to though. The backtracking last time had made him wary of it, even though that had been on an unkillable timer and buried in the structure of the building. In the moments he’d had, he would not have been able to reach it and cut the wires. This time, if he made anything at all, it would be on a switch he could deactivate remotely. He closed the door and wandered down the length of the shelter.

For what was essentially a warren, Keith found it surprisingly comfortable. He made his way through the bedroom, noticeably warm, but not too warm. Looking up, tiny star stickers meticulously mapped constellations over the arching ceiling of the bedroom. He’d put them there with Shiro. Until the lights went out, the night sky on their first date blended into the warm Swiss coffee colored paint above his head. He couldn’t recall if he’d ever told anyone specifically what they’d recreated. The thought of it now made his chest pain with each separating push and pull of his breath.

They’d sat up on the roof after an awkward dinner, where Keith had profusely apologized for his possessive angsting. He had insisted that asking for a date in the first place had been inappropriate, and if Shiro preferred, they could just forget that he’d mentioned it at all, return to the way things were, maintain status quo and all that.

_“Keith,” Shiro brushed away the short bangs, running his thumbs over the ridges of Keith’s heavy eyebrows, cheekbones. Cautious fingertips traced the angles and fine structure of his face. “Stop.”_

_Suddenly overcome, Keith looked at him, caught up in the secrets of Shiro’s dark eyes, feeling the hands glide around his waist and neck as he’d arched his back in, pliant and willing as he was pulled into a kiss._

 

He smiled to himself. The mystery of the ceiling was a good one to keep. One of the top bunks was his and Shiro’s. He supposed if they stayed here tonight, Shiro could be relegated to the sofa. Past the bedroom, he wandered through the kitchen area, at least it resembled a kitchen with a functional stove top, oven, and fridge. The room was not divided off from the common area, only delineated by the presence of the monolithic leather sofa that Lance had insisted on purchasing and that he’d managed to get stuck in the stairwell. Hunk, being the only other person around at the time, had been forced to disassemble the thing to get it inside.

The top of Lance’s head was just barely visible from where Keith stood. Hearing the flat, discordant twang of an out of tune acoustic guitar, he cringed.

Leaning over the back of the couch, Keith reached over for the sheet music balanced on Lance’s lap. The title of the piece had been deliberately torn off and the words scratched out with a wide black marker. All that remained was the melody line and the chord progression. Lance curled over the body, ear nearly pressed into the side, face wrinkled up as he struggled to tune it off of a Youtube tutorial. Giving up, he sat up and turned his attention to the intruder who had just taken away his music.

Keith tried to keep his thoughts from broadcasting over his features, although he couldn’t help but hum the first few notes aloud. Hearing the song in his head as he read the music, he climbed over and sat himself cross-legged between two cushions and put his hand out for the instrument.

“You going to call me out?” Lance handed the guitar over.

“Nope.” He ran his nail across the strings. The discordance was almost painful as Keith tuned it by ear. The first line of melody brushed against the strings, needing just the most delicate touch, picking with his nails, vibrato echoing off the end of each phrase. He almost opened his mouth to sing, but instead sealed his lips, mouth tilted down. “Okay. I lied. I like Linda Ronstadt.”

_Caught in my fears, blinking back the tears,_

_I can’t say you hurt me when you never let me near;_

_Cause I’ve done everything I know to try and make you mine,_

_And I think it’s gonna hurt me for a long, long time._

 

He handed the guitar back. This song was better left unsung.

A prolonged dearth of conversation had them sitting there. Together and apart. Keith couldn’t even look at Lance.

“You’re terrible at talking.” Lance finally said. Setting the instrument on the coffee table and pushing back against the legs of the table with his feet. “I gave you my take. I still hold that. Thinking you might be in love with me is self-delusion,” He held a hand up, one finger out, “and before you interrupt me and go off on your own tangent, don’t forget that loving someone and being in love with someone are two different things.”

Keith deflated. “I don’t know what I am.”

“A hot mess.” Lance supplied, conspicuously sizing Keith up and smirking, tongue between his lips. “Granted, without those pants, you’d just be a mess.”

“Are you implying that my sexual appeal directly correlates to my pants?”

Lance blinked long and slow. He didn’t have to say a word as his eyes skirted the contours of Keith’s frame, lingering. Seconds passed and they slid toward each other, sinking into the sofa.

“Wow.” It was the only response Keith had.

Their shoulders now touched, halting their progressive merging into the sofa.

Glancing at him, Lance spoke low and under his breath. “You can’t control your feelings, but you can always control your actions.” He took a deep breath. “And, some things are worth fixing, you know.”

It could have easily been a question, but it wasn’t. He’d known Lance for a long time, and he’d seen Lance be so self-absorbed he completely missed social cues to seconds later being able to take an acute situational awareness and apply that empathetically to people. The result was that sometimes, the superficial words and the meaningful ones became indiscernible.

Keith didn’t know if Lance was serious or upset. Probably both. He hated it when he couldn’t tell. The ocean was immense, and Keith was sure to drown before he ever found the person at the source.

The gentle tug of fingers twining through his hair diverted his thoughts. Stricken with a temporary paralysis, he became as still as a cut flower in a crystal vase, but he didn’t need to see to confirm who owned that hand. He knew the touch, the pressure, the way the nails grazed back against his scalp.

“We just finished going over the locations and access points. I can show you both the maps now or…” Shiro trailed off, the dead quiet of the moment giving away the gist of the conversation his presence had effectively ended.

“Where’s Pidge?”

“She went to go check on Hunk. The internet is still spotty.” Shiro smoothed Keith’s hair back with his fingers and separated the strands at the crown of his head, twisting and plaiting.

Keith pretended not to mind.

“Then let’s wait for them,” Lance suggested.

Not a minute later, Keith heard Pidge and Hunk in animated conversation about the wiring in the shelter.

 

###  **ix.**

Keith set his Les Paul on top of the rest of his strategically packed belongings in the trunk of Shiro’s car. He had mastered the art of vehicle Tetris when moving himself to college. Everything fit perfectly with room to spare, but when had he amassed more stuff than Shiro? Lance’s daily packages accounted for three boxes of clothing alone. Technically, all of it was replaceable, yet he had never gotten the hang of throwing things out when traveling or moving. His salary provided him with more than a little comfort, but he still had trouble justifying buying material goods even if it was something he needed or would use. “I can’t believe you said we’re going ‘camping.’”

“It’s a euphemism.” Shiro climbed in and waited for Keith.

“For what?” he asked, then immediately regretted it, slamming the door shut and cranking the seat all the way down before stretching his arms and closing his eyes. He needed to switch topics.

Driving out of the garage, Shiro pretended to give the matter deep consideration. At least that was Keith’s interpretation of the silence. “For what I’d like to do to you once we leave?” he finally offered. Shiro so rarely made jokes his lack of confidence made them fall significantly short of the mark. Keith sometimes wondered if he knew what funny even was.

“Too late and poor delivery. You missed your critical window several seconds ago.” He stopped himself at that. All Shiro was trying to do was flirt, but the timing was terrible. Nerves were high, and Keith was taking his bitterness and building it up into a great wall around him. His frustration with the situation, with himself, the distance so close it was nearly tangible _._

He was working himself up. He needed a distraction to keep his mind off of everything except the execution of the mission. Sex would have been a good one. It usually cleared him out and helped him relax, however, he knew he wouldn’t be getting any anytime soon. He had jerked himself off in the shower that morning, but it just wasn’t the same as having a warm, supple body to assist. He wouldn’t have minded the comfort.

The silence allowed his mind to fill with a cacophony of excess thought. “Shiro?” He sat up abruptly, lifting the lever to raise the seat, and suffering it to smack him soundly in the back.

“Yes?”

“Maybe we could actually go camping, you know? Drive out to Death Valley, sleep beneath the stars?” Keith blurted it out without pause for breath; he was grasping. He’d already pulled the short straw.

“What are you talking about. You despise camping.”

“Yeah. I do. I have a bad feeling about this. I don’t…” Keith considered his words carefully, “I don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

“I already died once. It’s unlikely to happen twice.”

Shiro’s second joke within minutes still wasn’t funny.

Usually, Keith didn’t consider the fragile nature of his own mortality, but he wondered what it was like to be someone who did. There it was, staring down at him, saying “hello.” He’d had enough close calls to be an insurance liability; getting slammed by a semi and having a few feet of intestines removed counted as a pre-existing condition, in addition to a massive amount of dental work and physical therapy.

At the same time, all of that and sepsis hadn’t killed him.

Several miles down the road, Shiro pulled off down a dirt road, hidden behind the treeline and parked his Porsche next to the antique, red motorcycle. Anvil heads of towering gray clouds formed in the distance, trailing out high over the horizon as the wind carried in the metallic, earthy smell of rain. There would probably be a storm tonight; at least that would help conceal their getaway.

Pidge and Hunk were waiting for them.

“Where’s Lance?” Keith looked around as he stepped out of the car. The Maserati was parked in front of Hunk’s Jeep, carefully tucked all the way into the shadows.

“Done and gone. Poof!” Pidge spread her fingers, imitating an explosion. “He’s probably on his way to go see _you_.” She winked. That was Lance’s cover, and it was good enough. Clearly, Keith was planning some sort of excursion with Shiro and would be taking the “fashionista boyfriend,” as Kolivan had dubbed Lance, along for the fun of it.

Keith hadn’t bothered to correct the error. “Right.” He dropped his jacket onto the hood of Shiro’s car and peeled off his shirt. He had insisted Pidge upgrade the equipment, and the trial runs back at the shelter had gone much more smoothly than anticipated. Instead of the concealed microphones, she’d invested in Bluetooth earpieces for this job. There would be no need to blend into a crowd or play at stealth. Keith had helped Pidge by boosting the signal she’d planted inside during the Gala. She had already set the camera feeds on a timer to turn over to her channel, so all they had to do was get in, get their marks, and get out again. Shiro would be on duty watching the cameras for the early part of the evening anyway; if something went wrong on visual, he could warn them.

Half dressed as he was in the daylight, Keith sensed Shiro’s appraising gaze. Shiro had said once that all his scars just meant he’d survived. Shiro, who was at that moment stripping himself down to bare skin above the waist. Shiro, who shrugged and said, “Looks like we can compare battle wounds.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little bold? You’re pretty fresh over there, soldier.” Cut and jacked, Shiro was as well-defined as ever, and Keith enjoyed the view, even with the still-pink scars and the strange membranous appearance of the seam joining Shiro’s flesh to the upper cuff of the metal prosthesis.

Keith recalled how he hadn’t noticed the shift from organic to inorganic until his hand had completely touched the cool, hard casement. He followed the lines of the arm and each ridge or trough of flesh emblazoned on Shiro’s torso, making a mental map of the new topography, picturing his fingertips kneading into Shiro’s breast. His mouth ticked up playfully as Pidge handed him the sensors while she attached the leads, still maintaining the prohibition on any of them putting on their own equipment.

Shiro relaxed against the side of the car. “No, not when there’s something I want. I might miss out if I don’t seize the opportunity while it’s there.”

Keith turned that thought over in his head, pushing it down with a little too much force, and feeling a tingling blush blossom across his cheeks.

Hunk pretended not to notice, but the suspicious glances Keith watched him direct toward Shiro were the definition of shade. Nevermind who had thrown down first, though he said nothing.

He and Pidge were dressed as they usually did. They would be visiting the galleries, and Keith had managed to rearrange his work schedule to be stationed with the artifacts for the evening.

Pidge patted Keith right on the belly, having finished attaching everything and meticulously checking the batteries in the recording unit, leaving it powered on. He’d steeled himself, but still flinched; it tickled.

“You’re good.” She took out her phone and navigated to her app as Keith leaned forward to watch her fingers tap the screen. Even this was an upgrade. Two months ago at the Gala, she had still been tracking them on her laptop. To his less technically inclined eye, this interface looked much more streamlined. He watched Pidge accept his addition to the list and his initials load into the sidebar right between her and Lance.

“Here,” she handed him the phone to get started with Shiro. The clean and simple interface made for easy to viewing and reading. He navigated through the various menus. Locations could be tracked easily using GPS coordinates. Checking that function showed Hunk, Pidge, and Keith grouped several miles outside of the main Galran Technologies building, with Lance mapped to the corporate housing. He assumed that the “common room” label had come from Shiro’s time with Pidge detailing the lay of the building. It looked accurate at least. Their vitals could be checked either individually or displayed on a single screen. Momentarily, Shiro appeared with a button for the user to either accept or reject the new addition to the list.

Keith decided against commentary and pressed accept before handing the device back to Pidge. “I like it.”

“I have alerts turned on, so if someone were to suddenly ghost,” she looked pointedly at Shiro, “I’ll know immediately. I’m going to try it with the current permissable vital levels, but I may change it depending on sensitivity. Right now I’m looking at heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature as the main three, but I could theoretically check lung capacity as well and nerve response. It’s not the greatest, but gives enough information to tell the basics.

He yanked his shirt on over his head and freed his hair from the collar.

“We’ll see you at 19:00,” Shiro said, tugging down his own close-fitting shirt. Keith hadn’t missed the current trend of Shiro’s shrinking wardrobe, chalking it up to wanting to be noticed. Well, he certainly had Keith’s attention, whether he was aware of that or not was another matter entirely. The gesture recalled Keith to Atlas, condemned to bear the burden of the sky eternally upon his broken shoulders. Something about the comparison seemed fitting. Shiro, who had studied the heavens, who had wanted the stars so badly, remained grounded and reconciled to his earth-bound nature.

Keith picked up his jacket, climbing back into the front seat of the car and wadding it up behind his head as a pillow for the short drive back. The tires skidded on the granular, dry earth and kicked up a cloud of dust behind them in their wake. Keith half expected Shiro to take the car through the wash, but instead, he rolled the windows down and turned up the volume on the radio.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in anticipation. Keith collected Lance and went through the building maps with him over lunch.

“That guy with the claw hand and the glowy eye kept giving me these really weird looks.” Lance speared a head of broccoli with his fork, cut off half of it, and popped the remainder into his mouth.

Eventually, he would teach Lance to use chopsticks, but this was not that afternoon. “You mean Sendak?”

“Is that his name?”

“Yeah.”

Lance lifted his arms and sniffed indelicately before leaning over the table and whispering, “I don’t smell, do I?”

Keith braced the edge of the table to meet him, breath grazing against his ear. “You stink,” he deadpanned. Pursing his lips to keep from smiling, Keith pulled away. He picked at his pepper steak, then added more rice and soy sauce and stirred it up. Shiro had once made fun of him for eating Asian food like an American. He’d been forced to point out that he was very much an American, “ _as are you, Shiro, thank you_ ,” and that soy sauce was tasty. He might also have pointed out that what they’d been eating was American Chinese, which was somewhat removed from traditional Chinese cuisine.

“Why are you nervous?” Lance asked, stabbing at the second half of the broccoli.

He didn’t expect that, not realizing Lance had been making idle chat. Instead of responding, Keith just shook his head. There it was, that feeling again, a lead weight right in the pit of his stomach, poisoning his body the longer it sat there festering.

Lance reached out for his hand, but he didn’t notice that he’d taken it until he felt the tight squeeze. He almost wished it to feel awkward, but for some reason, it didn’t.

Here was a person who gave of himself unconditionally, but on his own terms. Lance was the enigma of the deepest seas condensed into a single organic entity. In his element, he could take on any task and not think anything of it.

Or at least not betray that he did.

“You’ll be fine. _We_ will be fine.”

The intensity of Lance’s stare was staggering. Keith didn’t question his words, the truth self-evident.

_Que sera, sera._

The sky was already misting upon their return to the campus. Keith changed into his uniform. The shifts were staggered; Shiro should already be watching the feeds. Once he had the go-ahead from Pidge and Shiro, Lance would have free reign to head over to the main building.

Keith found Hunk seated on the bench in the rebuilt Gallery 13. It wasn’t a place he revisited if he could help it. When he had interviewed for this job, Zarkon had sat him down to watch the video footage of his fight with Shiro. His new boss went over every small damage to the exhibit and the final totals for repairing and replacing the custom displays and Plexiglas vitrines, for contracting conservators to condition check the objects and make any necessary repairs to the artifacts, to have everything scrubbed down clean. Their blood had been everywhere. He had pretended not to care.

“Just don’t forget the choke points. The laser-triggered alarms go up at 7:30. If you trip one, it will sound, notify the security company, the police, and send over the fire department.” Keith paced. He paused in the doorway to Gallery 12 watching Pidge examine the figurines.

“Well, just let us know if we need to distract attention,” Hunk stood up and wandered over after him.

Keith yawned and strolled over to Pidge. “Just a reminder, miss, we close in about,” he made a show of checking his watch, “five minutes.”

Her head bobbed slightly, voice barely perceptible. “We’ll stay here until you, Shiro, and Lance are done. This part’s simple.”

In an equally placid tone, he replied, “Maybe it’s Zarkon’s decoy, and the joke’s on him?”

Pidge scowled. Keith could tell the possibility was something she had considered but didn’t want to think too much about. The thing was, they didn’t actually need to take the lions; those were just a fun bonus.

“It’s possible,” Hunk mused. “I just don’t see him as the type to leave his things just lion around.”

“Seriously?” Pidge groaned and pulled out her iPad, as Hunk folded his hands in his lap, feigning disinterest. She turned so that her back was toward the case, where she knew the camera couldn’t turn to see what she was doing. “Lance?” she whispered.”

Keith realized he still hadn’t patched into the group line, but neither had Hunk. The devices weren’t invisible, and technically they were still on live view.

“Okay. Got it. I’m reading in from my end. Shiro, what does it look like up there?” She waited, listening. “Mmmhmm. Good. Thanks.” Sliding the tablet back into her bag, she grinned, clasping her hands together conspiratorially. “We are go.”

Static crackled and hissed as Keith patched into the call, then dissipated. “This thing working?”

“Yeah, loud and clear,” came Lance through the earpiece.

“And I can hear both of you,” Hunk added.

Keith glanced from Pidge to Hunk. “All right. See you on the other side.” With a two-fingered salute, he pivoted on the ball of his foot and strode out of the gallery space.

Making his way to the back of the building, he slipped into the stairwell, where he raced up the steps. Shiro was already waiting for him at the door to the laboratory hall.

“The floor is clear. I already checked.”

“Good.” Keith’s chest felt tight. He tugged at the neck of his vest, unsnapping the closure, then popping open the first few buttons of his uniform shirt, trying not to notice the way Shiro evaluated him. Someone apparently hadn’t gotten enough that afternoon.

Or was it something else entirely?

Shiro halted, as if about to say something, but choosing not to, he pushed through the door instead.

Keith followed him to the end of the hall.

Without hesitation, Shiro keyed them into the room and punched in the code to disable the room alarm. Just like that, without a word, he gave up his access on faith and a whim. It meant he wouldn’t be coming back here; he couldn’t change his mind now. This was the Shiro that Keith had missed most, who didn’t hem and haw over decisions, who knew what he wanted and went after it with solid conviction regardless of what anyone would say later, who was as confident in his actions as he was in his moral compass.

Keith pressed his hand into the small of Shiro’s back, feeling the slight spasm of the unexpected touch. _I know. I’m not the only one hurting inside._ “Let’s just get it and get out.” He pulled the door shut behind him slowly until it latched. The laboratory was tidy and clean, the matte black resin counter tops all wiped down, arcing smears of residue from sponge swipes across the surfaces, gas lines off, nothing in the sink and the only glassware left out was in the rack beside the autoclave. Fume extraction units were shut off, hoods closed. A row of solvent cabinets lined the back wall, labels on each door describing the contents.

“We’re in the lab.” He voiced the update to the rest of the team as he padded silently across the room.

“I’m almost done in the server roo- oh shit!” A loud crash resonated through from Lance’s end.

“Lance!” Keith and Pidge exclaimed simultaneously.

Shiro turned abruptly, but Keith motioned for him to continue. Everyone had a job to do. They would know if Lance needed them. Making his way to the back wall, Shiro dropped to a knee. A smaller, yellow cabinet labeled as blast-proof was tucked away in the corner. He tried the handle.

Locked.

Of course, it was locked.

More noise was heard from Lance’s end and then a very faint whisper. “I’m in the ceiling.”

Keith exhaled a breath of relief, joining Shiro.

“I’m going to try to find the key,” Shiro began, “but can you pick it?”

“Yeah. How about we make a deal. If you locate the key before I get it open, I’ll-“

“Buy my dinner,” Shiro finished, scanning the room, deciding where to look first.

Keith sat in front of the cabinet, pushing his hair back out of his eyes, and pulled his kit out of his pocket. This was a simple tumbler lock. With just a light amount of pressure and torque on his tensioner, he pushed up the pins and released the locking mechanism with ease. He had it open before Shiro had searched through the first drawer.

“You didn’t tell me what I’d get,” Keith turned the handle and cautiously opened the door. The only contents were a manilla accordion pocket folder and a metal cylinder about the size of a soda can. Someone had stuffed the folder to overflowing with papers and had written an illegible scrawl on the tab that looked to him like a cross between Hebrew and Arabic. Carefully pulling the pages out, he leafed through the contents: handwritten notes, molecular diagrams, printed formulas with corrections in red pen marching across the pages in tidy rows. He shoved them back in and set the file on top of the cabinet. Focused now on the canister, a gunmetal gray tube, with a capped top and bottom with a black rubber coating, he reached for it but stopped abruptly at Shiro’s voice.

“Don’t touch that!”

Keith looked at the label and read the product ID, _GT-01HM-9802 Quintessence_. “It’s contained. It’s fine.”

“I don’t want you touching it.”

“Shiro!” This was absurd. He grabbed the canister. A rush of air immediately condensed around him droplets of dew formed on the back of his hand. His knuckles creaked, his grip weakened as he turned it over, and a great stillness descending as though moving laboriously through a dense pocket of time.

Bursting free of its hinges, the door to the lab flew inward, crashing into a counter and clattering to the ground. The canister fell from his hand, bouncing as it settled from one end to the other, the deadening halt of an hourglass dropping its final grain of sand.

So much for a clean exit; Keith wheeled around, and Shiro froze in place. There in the doorway stood Thace and Ulaz. Behind them, Antok and what he recognized as the top of Kolivan’s head. Marmora.

“Keith? Shiro?” Pidge sputtered through his earpiece.

He dared not reply.

Thace closed his eyes, wiping a hand across his forehead. “I told you.”

Ulaz held his hands up in full surrender. “You did. It’s fine though, we just take what we came for and leave.”

“So long as it’s not the same thing we’re here for.” Keith stood as Antok pushed his way into the room between his teammates and pointed to the dropped cylindrical tube.

Shiro stepped in front of him, chest to chest, face tilted up to the masked visage, eyes narrowed in a leveling gaze. “That’s ours.”

Keith kicked it behind himself, an eddy in the air spiraling around his foot as he did so. The canister rolled under the cabinet, softly thudding against the wall behind.

Thace pressed his hands together and brought them to his lips. “Can we not?”

“It’s unavoidable,” Keith replied.

Shiro blocked Antok’s hand, reaching to shove him aside. He dropped his weight to kick out and throw his opponent off balance, but Antok was faster and at the last moment, shifted to step out of reach.

Keith vaulted over a table to head off Ulaz, quickly making his way over to Shiro, blocking the attempted grapple.

_No, you don’t._

This was not how he wanted to spend the evening.

Pidge hissed through the connection. “What’s going on up there?”

Neither of them replied. It was a waste of breath and energy, and why give away the team? A swift kick up nearly landed on the side of Ulaz’s head, but Keith felt another hand grasp his arm and whip him around so that he fell fast to the floor instead, skull cracking on the smooth polymer flooring. He could feel the sharp plastic edges from the shattered earpiece cut into his temple. So much for that. He snapped his head to the source of the pull. Thace. Breathing hard, he rolled away from the oncoming fist and scrambled to his knees. He reached down into his boot for his dagger, gliding it out as the deafening ring of the alarm unexpectedly sounded throughout the building.

Thace started at the noise.

Keith took the opportunity to recenter, forcing himself to find his footing. Pressing his back against the side of the counter and using it for leverage, he gritted his teeth and slid himself upright. Reeling, he leaned forward bracing his hands above his knees. Blood dripped from his hair and down the side of his face, into his eyes, clouding his vision. He likened the sensation to that of having spent the day in the water, laying in bed at the end of it yet still bobbing up and down, back and forth, half waterlogged from having baked in too much sun. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing the blood across his forehead. Blinking, Keith glimpsed Shiro slam into the fume hood with a grunt, safety glass shattering around him as he continued through.

Thace shook his head, his usual stoic reticence giving way to a very exasperated resignation to his task.

In anticipation, Keith licked his bottom lip. Predator or prey, he didn’t know, but intuition told him to slash out when the blade sliced through the air before him. He blocked it with the crossguard of his own. As he twisted to protect his fingers, the honed edge of Thace’s weapon cut through the bindings covering the sigil. The wrapping fell to the floor, the faint phosphorescent glow of the design emanated from the hilt, matching Thace’s blade and the saber in Zarkon’s office.

Keith shifted his weight and kicked out. Hard. Though sorely out of practice, Thace’s knees buckled from the impact. A second round kick to the chest sent him staggering back into Ulaz, and they struck the ground together.

Keith waited as Thace staggered to his feet and with a roar came toward him. This time, Keith locked their blades at the crossguard.

“Where did you get that knife?” Kolivan boomed out over the chaos. Keith hadn’t noticed him enter the room right at the periphery of his vision. He stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked in, over the Galran Tech logo on his security uniform.

Shiro‘s right hand shone a brilliant purple as Antok yanked him up by the collar of his vest.

Ulaz backed away in submission, but Thace staggered to his feet, lashing out with his dagger, a quick flick, and thrust of his wrist. Keith met the blow with his own blade, guiding the edge down to the crossguard.

“Both of you. Stand down.”

_On whose authority?_

Keith ground the edge of his blade where it was locked in firm resistance, daring Thace to make another move. He tensed, ready for whatever came next.

“I said, stand down!” Kolivan warned, dangerously on edge. He let his arms fall to his sides, unhurried as he made his way over to Keith and Thace, watching the latter with a hard stare.

“I yield.” Thace disengaged, finally pulling away and sheathing his blade at his belt, both hands remaining in sight.

“Where did you get that knife?” Kolivan scrutinized Keith with his amber eyes.

Keith met the gaze with his own cautionary stare. What was this actually about? It seemed Kolivan was the ringleader, and he could tell Thace was practically sweating this out. “I’ve always had it.”

“You’re lying.” Kolivan shot back

“I’ve always had it,” he repeated slowly. “Don’t insult my integrity. You know nothing about me.”

Kolivan’s eyes brightened at that, but he only nodded in thoughtful consideration. “So tell me, Kogane, what do you plan to do with the Dark Quintessence if I allow you to take it out of here?”

Shiro snapped to attention, focused on Keith and Kolivan now instead of Antok, the radiant heat haze off his hand intensifying with a hum and a crackle from within his arm.

Keith refused to break his gaze with the leader of the Marmora band. “First of all, you’re not _allowing_ me to do anything. When I leave with that canister, I’m going to destroy it. We’ve already wiped the server,” he hoped Lance had and that no one would call his bluff. “Anything remaining is in this laboratory or with the individual scientists who work here, and given the strict protocol those people attend daily, I doubt any of them have taken that risk.” Off-the-cuff it was the best answer he had. He said it and he meant it. He hadn’t really thought about what he, or more precisely they, would do with the Dark Quintessence once they’d stolen it. Even if they did completely erase the record of its existence, it would eventually be remade. He had the power to get rid of this himself, and he needed no one’s permission to do what he felt was right.

Kolivan spent an eternity scrutinizing Keith, a terrible, binding judgment, then signaled his men back to the door before extending his hand.

Still holding his dagger, Keith swapped hands and grasped Kolivan’s in a solid grip.

“The Blade of Marmora entrusts you with this.”

_The Blade of Marmora, huh?_ He wondered how that fit into the picture. It sounded like a splinter group or a rift in the ranks. If Zarkon’s son wanted to obtain the Dark Quintessence and Kolivan wanted it destroyed, what was actually going on? If they’d had any time, he would have forced the conversation right then.

_What is your purpose?_

_What is so important about this dagger?_

_Did you know my mother?_

Instead, they shook on it, a deal made.

“I’ll know if you renege.” With that, Kolivan turned, long, swift strides across the floor until he disappeared through the door.

He wouldn’t though, and for whatever reason, Kolivan believed that. Jamming his dagger back down into his boot, Keith lingered on their exit, wondering how much trust Kolivan and his ‘Blade’ actually placed in the two of them.

“Pidge? Hunk!” Shiro called into his microphone.

_Shiro._

Keith jogged over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You all right? What’s going on?”

“Ye-yeah. Why is there blood all over your face?”

“It’s fine. My Bluetooth broke.”

“Keith I-” He stopped, brows furrowed, “Pidge!” Worry sketched its harsh lines across his face. “It sounded like someone was being strangled,” he said to Keith.

“WHAT?”

Listening, Shiro turned away, making for the solvent cabinets. Keith let his hand fall to his side. Reaching beneath for the canister, Shiro’s forearm caught on the lower edge of the casement. Keith joined him, easily sliding his arm beneath the cabinet up to his shoulder and re-emerging with the capped tube in hand. The burdening air once again descended immediately upon him, the weight like an increased pressure against his diaphragm, every movement sluggish, every breath labored.

“Someone found her and Hunk downstairs. Must’ve been either Haxus or Sendak. She knocked them out.” Shiro turned off his Bluetooth device, then with a quizzical expression immediately plucked the container from Keith’s hand with his prosthetic.

“Hey!” Keith tried to snatch it back, but Shiro held it out of reach.

“You didn’t mean that. We’re turning this over, like we agreed.”

“I did mean it. This stupid thing has caused all of us more grief than it’s worth. I’m getting rid of it.” He reached for it again.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No?’” The rising heat of a lapse into fury mixed up with bitterness, a venom flowing through his veins. If it came down to it, he’d fight Shiro for the Dark Quintessence right here. Try explaining that one to the police.

“No means no.”

Keith stood, dragging Shiro to his feet. “Don’t you think this stuff has caused everyone enough grief? Someone will eventually make a new one, we can’t stop that. I’m sure Marmora has the original formula still, and they’ll build a new product off of that. Allura’s concoction is just as bad. I imagine she wants this to start developing an actual miracle, but just the fact that it exists is a liability. Call me selfish, but we can end this right here.” He gripped Shiro’s shirt by the collar, waiting for him to wrench himself away or push back.

Shiro didn’t. Instead he asked, “What are you so afraid of?”

The alarm continued to blare. Keith’s heart clamored against its prison cell. He had to consider the time versus the risk. He reached for the canister again, but Shiro was faster.

“It’s dangerous. Be careful.” Shiro scolded.

Ke felt the heat rising, burning his cheeks and ears. He shoved Shiro back against the wall. Hard. “I will destroy it. Executive decision.”

“I already told you no.” Shiro knocked Keith’s hands away and shoved him out of the way, still maintaining his grip on the Dark Quintessence. He turned his earpiece back on. “We’re heading out to the garage now.”

If Shiro let the others know, it would be harder to avoid a lengthy discussion and possibly lose the battle. He’d have to get it before they left. “Fuck you,” he mouthed, catching Shiro’s smug grin as he got to his feet and picked up the folder, rolling it and shoving it into his back pocket. Jerking his chin toward the entrance, he started toward it.

“Okay. Roger that.” Shiro caught up quickly. “We’ll meet Lance on the deck and drive out to rendezvous with Pidge and Hunk back at the fallout shelter.”

Keith grunted acknowledgment, double checking the time on his watch. Sprinting down the hall to the stairwell, he realized he didn’t actually know how long it would take for the authorities to respond now that the alarm was activated. They ran together up the stairs. At the top floor, they climbed inside a circular ladder and headed straight up, bursting through the concave emergency hatch and crawling out onto the gangway along the edge of the building into the onslaught of the storm. Drops of water pelted them as they ran to the opposite side where the garage was located. Another ladder led down. Keith lowered himself and grabbed the top rung, bracing the soles of his boots on the outer sides of the ladder, his rubber soles and leather of his fingerless gloves providing just enough friction to keep him from sliding too fast. His heart beat wildly in his chest as he waited for Shiro to climb down after him. So close, they were almost done. All they had to do was make it across this section of the building, head down one more ladder and shimmy over to the opening into the first covered section of the garage.

He scanned the lie of the concrete and steel as he ran. Beneath the rooftop utility room and adjacent cooling units stood Sendak, beneath the bright emergency lights, reflecting their gleam off the exposed metal prosthesis and the orange glow of his false eye pulsating through the rain.

“Look what we’ve got here!” He grinned as Keith and Shiro skidded to a halt on the sleek steel surface.

Keith reached out to grab Shiro’s wrist, the subconscious protective warning. He wiped his wet hair from his face.

_Fuck._

They wouldn’t be leaving without a fight.

“I knew something was up with you two.” Sendak pointed at Keith. “And your bike’s gone, but you obviously aren’t.”

“So? There are a lot of reasons that might be. Why do you even care?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” He took a few steps toward them. “You.” He shifted his gaze to Shiro. “Give me that.”

“No.”

Keith at Shiro’s exasperated tone.

Sendak lunged toward them with a mustered burst of impossible speed. _What is he on?_ Shiro stepped aside, and Keith dodged the raking claws, sliding beneath the outstretched arm and pulling his head in, but he didn’t miss the second swipe, clipping him across the shoulder as he turned out of the way. The talons sliced through the fabric of his shirt like butter, four long troughs carved into his flesh. He dodged the next blow as he got back to his feet.

The shock rendered his arm limp, but regaining his balance and kicking out, Keith landed a solid blow to Sendak’s chest. The force sent him staggering but not before landing a backhanded strike to Keith’s still-aching head.

Too slow. He was too slow. He sank to his knees, reaching out to brace himself against the metal roofing and locking his elbows. Blinking, trying to shake it off, he rocked back on his heels and tried to get back up.

“Keith!” Shiro yelled, stepping in from behind to block the next blow, all five of Sendak’s crushing talons gripped around his right arm.

The ground moved. He couldn’t tell if it was in his head or a tremor from the San Andreas fault line. He struggled to stand.

Trying to refocus, Keith watched as Sendak negotiated his massive weight, pulling Shiro off the ground with the momentum. The mechanical hand pinched through Shiro’s robotic arm before tossing him effortlessly over the edge of the roof.

Pure rage was all Keith could see through the blinding red of his vision, instinct carrying him through the motions. In one fluid movement, he crossed his left hand over his body and reaching into his opposite boot, slid out his dagger and threw it underhanded at his target. It turned once in the air and lodged solidly in Sendak’s back. The man fell forward with a shuddering thud.

Keith wiped his face on his sleeve, breathing hard as he edged over to where he’d seen Shiro disappear only moments before.

Fingers gripped on a small ledge just below the rooftop, Shiro clung fast.

Anchoring himself against the edge with bent knees, Keith leaned over, grabbing Shiro at the elbow. “I got you.”

“No, you don’t.” Shiro grimaced, not yet letting go of the ledge, both of them knowing that without a better grip, he’d fall.

Keith filled his lungs with air and exhaled slowly, adjusting his hold. “I mean it. I got you.” The fingers of his other hand were tingling, but he couldn’t easily move his arm. “As soon as you let go, grab my arm.”

Shock was normal.

It was also inconvenient.

“Keith-”

“I can bench press you.”

“I can’t-”

“Shut up and trust me!” He spat forth the words with all the conviction he could muster. It was a long drop to the concrete curb and asphalt drive.

Shiro let go. Keith strained, coerced by gravity, but his grip didn’t falter as Shiro took hold.

He heaved Shiro up, dragging him back onto the roof, sharply panting relief with each breath. Warm rain stung his eyes. He failed to resist the urge to throw himself at the man and take him up in an embrace, burying his face in Shiro’s neck as he did so. As much as he would have liked to stay there, they had to go.

“We’re really quitting after this, right?” Shiro gasped, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm his own breath.

“Yeah,” Keith affirmed. “We are.”

_Not “I” but “we.”_

Shiro reaching over to his severed hand, still in Sendak’s unmoving grip to pry the canister containing the Dark Quintessence from his own defunct mechanical fingers.

Keith thought about taking it back. It would be so easy, but the sirens were closing in. He could hear them in the distance and the police would be there soon. He could argue more with Shiro later.

He willed himself to his feet, grabbing Shiro by the arm again and pulling him up as well. They were running out of time.

“Sharp work, samurai!”

_Lance._ At least they wouldn’t have to wait.

Keith turned to greet his grin, but the smile faltered almost immediately and Lance’s eyes grew wide. Something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. The last sand in the hourglass fell through the narrow pass. He couldn’t tell if it was perception alone or the influence of the Dark Quintessence carefully contained and held in Shiro’s grasp.

“Get down!” Lance shouted, drawing a handgun from a holster inside his blazer, his eyes wide and bluer than the morning sky over the Caribbean Sea. His voice carried over the dissonant chaos of the pelting raindrops, pitched up and discomposed by fear.

Shiro threw himself directly to the slick metal roofing, canister still clutched in his hand as he hit the tarred surface.

Yet for Keith, time slowed to a deadening halt. At this juncture, he met Lance’s gaze, watched the hardening of the icy stare, brows furrowed, and arm extended. The stainless steel barrel aimed directly at his chest.

_Fuck._ It was as if the very universe from which he’d been birthed had decided in its infinite wisdom to abort the abomination instead. Only this determination had been made retroactively, some thirty-odd years too late.

Face to face with destiny, and God was staring him down, his judgment a .38 Smith & Wesson Special, wielded one-handed by Lance McClain, safety off. He had never been penitent; he didn’t believe in regret. Chance remained his one recourse.

As if removed from himself, he watched with stark clarity. A single shot boomed out over the pummeling of the storm, the flash of gunpowder seared his vision, and smoke from the mouth of the cylinder dissipated in the rain.

He fell to his knees from the immediate, solid impact. Something clattered behind him, but he couldn’t turn around.

_Why?_

Love is a four-letter lie.

Panting and shaking, Lance dropped the revolver at his feet. He was a hurricane having made landfall, roiling and railing against the breaking odds. Water soaked the starched linen suit and stained his cordovan leather oxfords. As his legs buckled beneath him, his lips formed a single word. He covered his mouth in horror, shaking his head.

Keith felt nothing except for a slight numbing prickle in his fingers and toes. A long hollow wheeze erupted from within as he struggled to draw in breath, and he clutched at his chest. Blood filled his throat, and the metallic tang spilling up into his mouth set him gagging as he struggled to clear his windpipe. He withdrew his hand, entirely coated in viscous red. Collapsing into himself, he fell forward, the echo of his skull on the metal sheeting reverberating through him.

He thought he heard Shiro’s voice. “Quick! We have to get him on his side.”

Someone shoved him over, began pounding him on the back. He was drowning in the garnet liquid that gushed forth a fount from his chest with every hit. The world turned before him. His vision blurred.

He didn’t mind; he’d been here before.

Another thump and he coughed, expelling more of the fluid collecting in his lungs.

Air.

A tiny taste, a tease. It wasn’t enough, he couldn’t get enough, struggling for more as his life force continued to ebb with each expansion of his chest, fingers grappling at nothing.

A hand reached out for his.

“Hey! Stay with me, Keith! You have to stay awake.”

_Shiro?_

Someone roughly lifted his lids.

“His pupils are dilated.”

The flat of a palm connected with his cheek in a hard slap.

“Don’t you leave me!” Shiro’s voice cracked, screaming at him.

_Shiro?_

“Keep him conscious!” Shiro barked the order, followed by another angry crack across his face. This one smarted, and he opened his eyes. He had no energy left. Forehead pressed into the thick dark liquid, it was getting easier to breathe. The less air he needed, the more comfortable he became.

Everything distilled to the essence of the stars.

His body was dying.

“You have to carry him, Lance. We’re too far out; we can’t wait for an ambulance.”

He could wait though, what was the hurry? Enveloped in warmth and the wet, stormy night, the inky blue-blackness of the cosmos consumed the lens of his vision before it faded into ultraviolet.

And then it was gone.

 

###  **x.**

The light stung through the slits of his eyes. Sleep glazed Keith’s pupils, refracting the vaporous fluorescent glow above him. He blinked and slowly, a pinpoint in the stark whiteness came into focus.

He heard a voice faintly somewhere over his head.

“No, Shiro, you listen to me. I’ve played by his rules and I am fully aware of where I currently stand in all this, however, if you ever…”

Something was not right. A great weight pressed against his chest, pinning him down and he struggled to wriggle out from under it. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move. Pins and needles tingled through his limbs, and even if he were able to get himself up, he knew he’d be unable to stand.

“Look, we don’t even know if he’s...” This voice was different. Someone was talking about him.

Shiro.

Blinking, he looked around again, Something dark, heavy, and warm. Everything smelled of staleness, plastic, and iodine. He flung his free arm over the side of the bed, he was in a bed, right?

“Keith?”

Lance? With an impact that nearly knocked the wind out of him, he felt the other person’s body flung over his own, cheek to cheek, strong fingers through his hair. Beside him, a loud crash of metal against metal as something hit the bedframe and someone groaned in audible discomfort.

“Shiro! He’s awake.” It was Lance, trembling with the onslaught of tears as he backed off, gripping Keith’s shoulders in poor imitation of a Pietà.

He blinked, almost able to see again.

Lance.

Panic set in.

But instead of finishing the job, Lance bent his head down to Keith’s chest and choked back what sounded suspiciously like a sob.

Someone else squeezed his hand and let go, brushed his bangs back from his face, then smoothed the pads of their fingers over his brows.

“Hey.”

_Shiro. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He tried to get up again. It didn’t matter how he did it, his sense of self-preservation told him that if he wanted to survive, he had to get out of wherever he was. From nothing, he willed the strength to sit up and shove off the bodies holding him down. Something tugged against his chest, and when his feet hit the floor, he crumpled to the cold linoleum. He couldn’t force his legs to work, the groggy pain of paresthesia too great.

Commotion erupted around him. More people, unfamiliar voices, blue hands.

Air. He needed air.

“Calm down.” The voice was smooth and comforting, but four hands were on him, dragging him back to the bed. _No._ Something about blood pressure, heart rate, reattaching the tube.

What tube?

If he didn’t calm down, they were going to put him under. Another voice.

Everything was still hazy, but he could make them out. Nurses and technicians. Hospital staff.

He was in a hospital. No wonder everything smelled so sterile. There were probably diseases everywhere. He’d most likely end up with sepsis again, shitting chocolate milkshakes for weeks. Nope. Been there, done that. He’d stopped paying attention to the dialogue and twisted out of the grasping hands, but they caught him and shoved him back down.

A thick black curtain descended upon him.

When he awoke again, it was a woman’s voice that spoke; no one else was in the room, oxygen lines traipsing across his face, IV taped down to the back of his hand. They traded in questions and answers. He’d been shot through the lung, and the bullet had grazed his heart. Did he know his heart had five chambers? Yes, he did, but it worked just fine. He also had a second set of canines, so what? She explained why he was there: surgery for the gunshot wounds and pneumothorax. Pneumothorax? Collapsed lung. The three incisions in his side were from the surgery. The four deep cuts in his arm were sewn up and healing. The tube in his chest was going to stay so his lung could properly re-inflate and heal. It was taking longer than expected but he seemed to be doing well. She told him the date. He’d been in a coma for over a week, and now that he was awake, she needed to make sure he hadn’t sustained brain damage.

Brain damage?

She nodded. “You can’t survive with one lung. Your brain needs oxygen, and you can’t get enough unless both your lungs are functioning.”

Oh right, he was on oxygen.

From the other side of the small observation window, something caught his attention. Four familiar faces filled the space.

“Can they come in?” he asked.

“Your husband can.”

“Husband?” Imagining himself in that kind of domestic partnership was laughable. He bit his lip to keep himself from giving it away, knowing that if he didn’t play along, he wouldn’t be able to see anyone.

The doctor must have chalked it up to disorientation because she only nodded. “He hasn’t left the building the entire time you’ve been here.”

She went to the door and ushered Shiro inside.

“Hey babe, how are you feeling?”

Grumbling derisively, Keith’s mouth turned down at the beaming face above him. “You look like shit.”

He did, with a week’s growth of beard and the same black tactical combat pants and boots Keith remembered from the heist. There was even a dingy ring around the neck of his shirt.

“Not as much as you.” Shiro seated himself next to the bed and took his hand, careful to avoid the IV.

The doctor left them alone after the battery style interrogation. Keith answered everything she asked, leaving brash sarcasm aside if only to get her out sooner.

“Half an hour.” She directed at Shiro as she shut the door behind her.

Keith tried his best to glare, but was unable to muster the correct amount of vehemence and instead breathed a sigh of relief. “Did you actually lie?”

“No. Lance was highly suggestive. I didn’t have to do a thing.”

That made sense. Shiro wouldn’t lie even if it could be justified, his morality too rigid for exceptions to the rules. Yet they were technically thieves, and neither had ever attempted to reconcile the hypocrisies of their mercenary existence.

“What happened?” He remembered Lance yelling something and then shooting him. It didn’t quite make sense.

Shiro’s mouth hardened to a straight line. “Lance shot Sendak before he cleaved you in two. It was just unfortunate that he fired through you.”

“Blow a kiss, fire a gun.” Keith shrugged off the sharp sarcasm, brow raised before turning his head away.

Shiro turned his face back, fingers at his chin. “Don’t ever change.”

He scanned his “husband” then looked to the window again, at the other three faces still there. Shiro’s missing arm remained a testament to his statement, Sendak had sliced through that sleek, hard exoskeleton with ease. He remembered the feeling of shock and horror when he saw Lance’s face up on the roof. Outside of the moment, he viewed it differently than he had before.

Perhaps if he’d dropped even just a microsecond sooner he, at the very least, wouldn’t be _here_.

“This is all my fault. If I had listened to you and just left without the Dark Quintessence, without the production mechanism-”

“Shiro, life doesn’t work on ifs and regrets. We make our choices, and we live or die by them. I’d do it again.”

“But then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Do you remember what I told you? You don’t get to determine your value to me. Nobody does for anyone.” He didn’t have the emotional stamina to argue this right now.

The door handle turned, and he was grateful for the interruption. Lance, with a finger to his lips, stepped inside, followed by Pidge, and Hunk, making sure the latch closed quietly before sitting on the floor, away from the window view.

Lance let out a long sigh as he leaned back onto the linoleum tiles. “I’m so glad you’re alive,”

“You have no idea.” The words left an acerbic taste in Keith’s mouth. Lance deserved it, for the raw fear, cruel betrayal, and emptiness he had felt in that microcosm.

“No, I do. Keith, the bullet grazed your heart. I killed you. You were dead on arrival.”

“Modern medicine is a miracle,” he said, dryly.

Lance’s hands flapped and gestured as he talked. There wasn’t makeup for his soul. The smile and the laugh were forced and did nothing to hide the ugly feelings he was carrying around. It made him look bad. Really bad, and Keith suspected he knew it.

“-in and out through your chest, kissing your over-sized, alien heart.”

“Don’t talk about my heart like that.”

Shiro whistled.

Hunk started to laugh, and Pidge suppressed a giggle.

“It’s not funny.” Keith closed his eyes.

Lance pulled himself up, folding his arms over the side of the bed and resting his cheek on his hands “Shh! Your heart is perfect, _alien_.”

“I am _not_ an alien!”

Shiro squeezed his hand. “Whatever you say.”

“Don’t tell me you believe that garbage too?”

“You’re the one who said your mother arrived on this planet by way of the Roswell crash.” Pidge quirked a brow and spread her palms upward.

“I was definitely stoned and very drunk.”

“Okay,” Shiro conceded. “It’s possible that you just made it up.”

Keith closed his eyes again. Fighting to stay awake was exhausting. He felt different hands on his shoulders, squeezing, patting. He didn’t want them to go. “Don’t leave.”

Hunk immediately resumed his position on the floor, followed by Pidge. Lance paced at the end of his bed, finally digging inside his jacket and pulling out a fairly sizable parcel that he handed to Keith.

He picked at the knotted twine unsuccessfully before giving up and handing it off to Hunk who untied and removed the string before passing it back. Carefully unfolding the paper and cloth wrapping beneath revealed Keith’s dagger.

“I would have missed it eventually.”

“Isn’t that the only thing you have from your parents?” Lance asked.

Keith nodded. “My mom worked for Marmora.”

“That’s what Pidge told me. Marmora,” he said, drawing out the syllables. “So, I didn’t get the chance to tell you before, but when I was setting up the escrow account with Allura, she took a call from someone I’m 99% sure was Lotor Zarkon, and it was obvious he was trying to bribe her into helping him obtain the Dark Quintessence and destroy some of the materials that Galran Technologies had taken from Marmora. She wasn’t biting. I mean, the guy _is_ kind of a prig, but anyway.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I thought I might be able to find out some more about what was going on over at Marmora Manufacturing and eventually, by eventually, I mean six grueling hours on the phone with various stock brokers later, I had a list of names and the date of the next meeting. The short of it is that I ended up standing in for one of the major shareholders to attend the corporate directors meeting and dinner. I hate those things, they’re so stuffy and filled with even stuffier people in power suits and power shoes with tight-ass power haircuts. They all wear the same tacky ties, gaudy cufflinks, all decked out to showcase how much they _have_.” He scowled, “Too much money and absolutely no taste.” Stabbing a finger at his open mouth, he made a gagging noise. “Pluralistic fucking ignorance.”

Keith tried to laugh, but the contraction in his chest screamed at him, and the sound came out a croaking cough instead.

Lance hadn’t noticed; he was still going. “This guy Lotor though, get a few in him and he starts boasting about his highly connected _friend_ ,” covering his mouth, faking some coughing noises around Allura’s name before continuing. “Apparently this friend’s inside contacts were going to deliver him the goods. I guess he thought he could charm the princess into doing the dirty work for him? Who knows?”

Leaning over the end of the bed, Lance supported himself on his elbows, “Here’s the thing though, the dude with the braid-”

“Kolivan?” Keith offered, another thought immediately forming. “Do you think he’s ex-Mrs. Zarkon’s lover.”

“Come on, Keith, you see romance in everything.” Shiro grinned, shaking his head.

“No,” Pidge put in. “He was in a _lot_ of the pictures I was able to dig up and he’s been around since the founding of Galran Technologies.”

Keith nodded in quick agreement.

“Hey-hey-hey!” Lance snapped his fingers to grab their attention. “I’m not done yet. So _Kolivan_ ,” he continued, “I’m pretty sure that guy doesn’t like Lotor. At all. He just went up to him after the dinner, completely unfazed, ‘Not going to happen,’ and he was right, but I still don’t know if he knew because of you or something else?”

Keith hummed, thinking about his last exchange with the old man. “He had his own agenda.”

Pidge set her intense scrutiny on Lance, unable to hide her astonishment. “Unbelievable,” she whispered. “You actually did work!”

“Huh?” Lance turned to her, brows raised and sliding to the floor to lean against the hospital bed. “Of course! Didn’t you read my reports?”

She glanced sheepishly aside then abruptly sat up. Keith took that as a negative. “Oh! But you’ll love this!” As if remembering something she’d almost forgotten, Pidge scrabbled over on her knees in a halting, jerky motion and leaned over the side of the bed. “Galran Technologies is under federal investigation. Their audit went poorly. I think that might have had something to do with why Zarkon’s been out of the office so much lately. He’s apparently been colluding with prescribers to get a higher payout from Medicare and Medicaid.”

The glint off her glasses as she side-eyed him indicated that she might have had something to do with initiating the IRS audit in the first place. Keith found it amusing. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m glad to be nobody when shit like this hits the fan.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Hunk pulled the bandanna off his head and shook out his hair. “It’s better this way.” He patted Keith’s shoulder. “We should let you get some rest.”

Pidge followed him to the door. “We’ll be outside. Maybe Shiro will finally go home and shower.”

“Nope,” Shiro replied.

“You smell,” Lance remarked, leaning over Keith.

“Who? Him or me? Do they bathe patients in this place?”

“Yes,” Lance and Shiro answered simultaneously.

Shiro continued. “The nurse comes and bathes you. It’s some kind of pre-packaged cleaning pad, and yes, he touches you everywhere.”

“He?”

“The nurse that bathes you.”

“Are you jealous?” Keith asked automatically, turning toward Shiro.

Before he could respond, Lance made quickly for the door.

Keith noticed. “Hold it, space juice.”

Lance stopped, back toward him, and rubbed his eyes across the sleeve of his blazer. “I’m just relieved you’re going to be all right. I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself. Otherwise, you know?”

“Thank you.”

In an instant, Lance was draped over him, weeping into the thin fabric of the gown at his shoulder and his pillow.

Even Shiro rubbed Lance’s back. For what seemed like the first time, at least that Keith had ever noticed, he didn’t even bother to compose himself in the presence of others. He sniffled and used his sleeve to mop up his face before Shiro handed him the box of tissues. His handkerchief hung out of a pocket, soggy and rumpled beyond usefulness.

When he was done, Lance threw back his shoulders, standing up tall, “Get well or I bury your corpse in Armani and burn your t-shirts.”

Keith pushed himself up with his elbows. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Lance raised a brow in challenge. “I wouldn’t?” He paused to examine his nails before signing out with a casual salute. “Later.”

“See you.” Keith acknowledged, watching as he sauntered away. He didn’t really blame Lance for it, there were always risks in their kind of work. It was part of the deal. The harsh reality was that he was confined to a hospital bed with a plastic tube in his chest, an IV in his arm, and various unidentified monitors attached to his body. Pulling his knees up beneath the sheets, he winced. His joints creaked audibly, his joints stiff from disuse. He noticed the bedside table, the slick surface littered with cards, a floral arrangement, and there, right at the edge, was his plastic red lion.

Shiro picked the toy up. The frayed ribbon had been replaced with a new golden bow. “For good luck.”

“Who ever heard of a luck lion?”

“I was waiting for everyone to leave before I show you this, but,” He set the lion aside and pulled a small metal tube out of his pocket. Anchoring it between his knees, he unscrewed the cap and pulled out a small vial with the stopper jammed in and wrapped to prevent leakage. “Here it is.”

“Wait.” He recalled the container the Dark Quintessence had been housed in. It had been about the size of a soda can, probably lead-lined. This was much smaller and the contents no bigger than a small test tube. “This is the Dark Quintessence, right? Why haven’t you handed it over yet?”

“I was thinking you might be right after all. The move might be get rid of it.” Shiro held the tube up to the light, dark violet-red liquid inside clinging to the wall of the vial in a thin coating as he turned it. The jewel-like liquid caught the reflection of the fluorescent lighting, the rich purple-red of a highly polished star ruby. “Pidge said it’s a very expensive production process, so I’m not surprised the resources hadn’t been allocated if the newest focus has been the biomechatronic tech filched from Marmora.”

“Do Pidge, Lance, and Hunk know you still have it?”

“Yes. We’re all in agreement it needs to go, but I thought you’d want to be a part of that.”

“Yeah, okay, but I don’t want to see it. How?”

“It wasn’t very hard. You’d been dead for several minutes when we arrived here. Even if it wasn’t from the substance itself, the greed surrounding it is overwhelming. Lance suggested disposal before I even brought it up.”

He didn’t want to hear any more. “Put it away.” Even the presence of the contained fluid was beginning to make Keith uncomfortable. He could hear the beeping of the machine beside him start to slow. “That red door,” he pointed to the wall opposite him and the medical waste containment unit. “Can you just bag it and put in there? If it says biohazard, it should go to an incinerator.” A pulse expanded through the thickening air, threatening to knock the wind out of him with the magnitude of its force. He expelled his breath, the quick reaction pulling against his chest and the inserted air tube. He thought he’d imagined it, or that he was just disoriented from having been horizontal for over a week, but Shiro’s expression told him otherwise. Something brewed within that test tube, ready to perform its necrotic miracle, yet it looked like any other thick, colored liquid.

Shiro stood, clutching the small vial having moved it away from Keith and the hospital bed.

“Stop touching it. And be careful. Put it back in the container first, bag it, and drop it down the medical waste disposal.”

“That seems far too simple,” but he gingerly set it back inside and let Keith screw on the top while he held the metal tube.

Keith saw his hand shake as he triple bagged the small container and after reading the labels on the door opened the chute and dropped in the Dark Quintessence. The impending pressure in the air dissipated as it had come. Time picked up its pace, and Keith shut his eyes in relief. When Shiro returned to his side, he kissed the back of Shiro’s hand and held it against his cheek

“This isn’t the improbable plot of a Hollywood blockbuster. No one will know, and besides, we need it gone. I never want to hear about that stuff or see it again.”

 

###  **xi.**

Reaching behind himself, Keith pulled the door shut and turned the lock. He’d insisted on carrying his own things and let his bag fall to the floor. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside. It was good to be back in a familiar place, even if his room smelled stuffy, of stale cigarettes, sex, and dirty laundry. Some of his clothing piles looked to be missing or demolished.

He’d dragged Shiro immediately away to his hovel of a nest, leaving the rest of the team to deal with Coran, who had appeared almost as soon as they’d arrived.

“No, no, and no,” he had said before Coran had uttered a single word.

The man had the audacity to blow him a kiss and wave with a smile as he’d rolled his eyes, stealing away to his room with Shiro in his tow, gripped at the wrist.

Keith’s head swam from whatever medication he’d been given. The drug-induced inebriation leaving him uninhibited and undeniably horny. “Fuck me,” he demanded, with a sharp jerk of his head and a flick of the blade in his grasp.

“I don’t-” Shiro began, eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth slanting up in dawning comprehension. In two long strides, Keith was on him, fingers twisted in his polo, nose to nose, lips parted and touching, drinking him in and nearly lifting him off the mattress where he had just seated himself.

Keith’s bed was almost exactly as he had left it, a mass of unmade sheets and blankets over a dingy mattress pad with numerous unidentifiable stains. The edge of the blade rested just below Shiro’s chin, sharp against his jugular as he allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and slammed against the wall. Keith grinned, pressing their bodies firmly together, his knee wedged between Shiro’s legs as he reached down to grope at the stiffening bulge. Shiro thrust his need against the unyielding resistance of Keith’s palm.

Kissing him quickly but messily, a crush of lips and clatter of teeth, Keith rubbed his hand over Shiro’s cock, then pulled away, inspecting him shrewdly before airing his grievance. “I shouldn’t have to tell you more than once.” Turning the knife to push the tip upward, he gripped Shiro’s shoulder and standing on tiptoe whispered softly, “I want you to fuck me.”

He shifted the flat of the blade again as his fingers moved down the front of Shiro’s shirt, drifting over and curling into in the soft tissue of his chest, squeezing with a breathy moan.

“You are incapacitated, and you are not cleared for extracurricular activity,” Shiro spoke the words, but he swallowed hard, the air pushing audibly against the back of his throat.

“Do I look like I care? I’m a consenting adult.” He gasped under his breath, slipping his fingertips just inside Shiro’s waistband.

Shiro seized his jaw in a vise-like grip. “If I have to take you back to the hospital, then...” he warned.

“Then what?” He wrenched his face away, knee all the way up and forearm positioned across Shiro’s ribcage. “I want it hard and I want it wild and I want you to smack my ass when you enter and talk to me smooth as honey when you come. Make me scream until I see the fucking stars, Shiro. I want your spunk dripping down my thighs when you’re done and my tears are red and raw…” he trailed off. There was no higher transcendence.

Hand to Keith’s chest, Shiro pushed him gently back, careful to avoid the point of the dagger. “I don’t know what they put you on, but I think it’s gone straight to your dick.”

Keith deliberately ignored that. “Would you rather me fuck you instead? I can do that.” He stepped back in and walked his fingers up Shiro’s sternum, fixating on the movement of his own hand. He bit his lip, swaying his hips as he cast a slow, upward glance, to the eyes for only him.

“Keith.”

Letting his hands fall to his sides and tossing the dagger into a pile of clothes, Keith threw himself backward onto the bed. “I tried. You can’t say I didn’t. That was at least seven distinct opportunities for you to attempt to knife disarm me.” He stretched onto his side, chin wrinkling as he moped. “By the way, your cock feels like famine.”

Shiro climbed up beside him, shoving the stump of his right arm beneath the pillow and gliding the flat of his palm over the contours of Keith’s form. “I’ve been hungry for a while, and I certainly wouldn’t mind feasting on you.”

He moaned lazily at the touch, “Then why won’t you sin with me? We’d be covering both gluttony and lust in one go.”

“I never said I didn’t want to have sex. However.” Shiro paused to work Keith’s t-shirt off.

“However?” He slipped one arm out, then the other, resolving to pretend he wasn’t impressed and still more than kind of turned on.

Shiro grazed his fingers over the bandage taped to Keith’s chest. “You’re leaking.”

Keith looked down at himself. He was, for lack of a better phrase, a disaster. A brown tideline had bled out from the slowly growing spot of seepage from the drain stitched into his skin below the gauze padding.

“In fact I think I would really like to experience the caress of your touch or to hold you and bury my face in the cinnamon sweet scent of your hair-”

“I do not smell like cinnamon.”

“Yes, you do.” Shiro tugged him close, arm wrapped around his waist and legs twined together.

“But it’s been so long since I’ve had you in me. Let’s try this again. I want you to take that fat dick of yours and hammer it into me with my face in the dirt and the savage force of nature at your back. Break me open.” Not that Shiro was listening. At this point, Keith would take what he could get and shoved him over to sit on his belly, easing himself down to feel the warm breath on his own lips.

Shiro smoothed out a lock of Keith’s unruly hair from the dark veil that framed his face and held it to his nose, respiring deeply.

Keith turned his head, pulling his hair away. Forcing Shiro’s fringe out of the way, Keith kissed him, this time with the passion of building need. When he was through exploring, he moved off with Shiro’s bottom lip between his teeth until it snapped back into place. “My chest hurts.”

“Of course it does. And you shouldn’t be doing any work.” Shiro guided him off and awkwardly grabbed his belt.

He helped, tugging on the hem of his jeans with his toes as Shiro pushed them down. “I don’t know. You’re fully dressed. We need to fix that.” Keith reached down and with some rearrangement or limbs, shucked Shiro of his slacks and underwear in one go before easing him out of the polo.

Reaching over and snapping the waistband of Keith’s briefs, earned Shiro an indignant glare. “You’re still wearing these.”

“Then finish undressing me.”

Shiro did as directed, searching digits trailing through his crack as the elastic slid over the rise of his ass. He pulled Keith close before allowing him the chance to reciprocate. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“Shiro-”

“I-”

Shiro’s voice stuck fast in his throat and he gulped as Keith slid off to lay beside him. Pearls of tears slid down his face and Keith was there to wipe them away with the edges of his thumbs. “It’s okay. I’m right here.” He folded his arms around Shiro and let himself be cried on, face into his shoulder and the taped bandages on his chest. He didn’t care. Shiro shook as his weeping wracked his entire body, hand tangled in the mass of Keith’s hair, the rough remains of his other arm at his side.

Keith traced the twisted skin and metal as the person beneath shuddered at his touch.

_It doesn’t matter. I want you regardless._

The vulnerability made Shiro’s pain and internal struggle as real as his own; tangible and manifest in their bodies and their closeness.

Holding him and permitting himself to be held in return, Keith smoothed Shiro’s hair, letting him cry it out, kissing his face until the kisses were returned.

He was pinned by the flutter of lips against the curve of his shoulder and the soft tickle of eyelashes and the tip of Shiro’s nose. His ears rang when he felt the palm against his inner thigh, pressing his leg outward and drifting up to his groin. He groaned, tightening his grip in Shiro’s hair.

With a grin, Shiro rose up just enough to kiss him soundly before retreating again. Encircling Keith’s nipple with his tongue, He gently licked, suckled, then blew a cool stream of air through tight lips. Maintaining eye contact, Keith shivered, trying not to writhe as goosebumps prickled over his arms and the nape of his neck. He groaned, “Shiro.”

Grunting in reply, Shiro eased himself down, depressing and kneading his thumb along the tough ridges of scar tissue on Keith’s abdomen. He planted kisses in Keith’s navel and pushing his tongue into the shallow divot before continuing down the dark trail.

“Shiro!” Keith whined as Shiro pulled his fingers through pitch black pubic hair. The heat collecting in his gut trickled slowly down to his groin.

Shiro repositioned himself, using Keith’s leg for support, drawing his hand back. Running fingertips along the length of Keith’s shaft and wiping at the droplet of precum before popping the finger in his mouth to sample the goods like tasting a fine wine.

Keith sensed a momentary hesitation, but before he could ask, Shiro gripped his cock and, head down began massaging his balls by mouth, warm and wet.

Arching his back, Keith fixed his vision on the plastic yellow-green glow-in-the-dark stars puttied to his ceiling. Shiro had been right; he didn’t really have the energy for the kind of ride he’d asked for. His fugitive breath came with the anxious tightening in his lung and the strange tension against his flesh where the adhesive tape had been applied front and back to hold the gauze in place. He quaked when Shiro tongued over his hole for just a fleeting moment, letting him know that hadn’t been forgotten as a hand squeezed gently around his dick, tongue encircling his tip before taking him in entirely. Fingers probed at the back door. He briefly wondered where he might have hidden the lube.

He couldn’t remember. Spit and courage would have to suffice.

_Be brave, my ass._

Such was life.

He let Shiro work the strain out of him until he was pliant and supple, and while he didn’t see the stars when he came in Shiro’s mouth, the blue light of his peak flashed in radiance behind his eyes. There was a certain vulnerability of coming inside another person; however, it was done. It was giving up a part of his autonomy to use someone else as the vessel of his pleasure and the recipient of the evidence, a sort of clandestine tryst for the duration of that moment with clenching hearts and bated breath. Secrets shared and lost and departed.

Shiro saved most of it, a kiss of semen and saliva. Keith swished it around in his mouth and shot it right back in Shiro’s face, a spray of ejaculant from between his front teeth.

As Shiro squeezed his eyelids tight, Keith kissed him again. “Creamed,” he said, licking the tip of Shiro’s nose in one smooth motion. The last laugh was his, and he relaxed into Shiro with a smug smirk, partially entwined as he curled up and made himself comfortable.

“You know something?” Shiro said, wiping at the cum and licking it off his hand, longing and something else written on his face as he shifted to look Keith in the eyes.

“Hmm?”

The uncertainty was back, but it was different this time as if whatever Shiro was going to say held all the truths of his heart and the weight of the world.

Then it came. “I love you.”

He was home. They both were.

“I love you, too.”

 

 

###  **Epilogue**

Huddled under the umbrella, Keith slathered the sunscreen on his thighs. The thick white liquid dripping between his legs at a dead crawl reminded him of a different congealing fluid before he rubbed it into his very pale skin. He wore a red and black square-legged speedo that served as a sort of compromise between the standard briefs version and the longer swimwear that reminded him of bike pants. Board shorts were uncomfortable, looked terrible, and he refused to wear them.

Shiro reached over to help, gliding his hands along Keith’s hard muscles, his right arm rebuilt courtesy of Kolivan, who apparently had more pull within his own organization than anyone had previously thought. “You looked like you needed some assistance.”

Keith bumped Shiro’s arm with his shoulder. “Maybe I do.” He grinned and pushed up the sleeves of the gray rash guard he wore over the bandages. Shiro had taped the wound in his chest front and back, but he still had a drain in place to expel the excess fluid and was not allowed to participate in any activity that required exertion. Pulling the hair tie off his wrist with his teeth, he gathered the mass of waves and curls at the back of his head to secure it before feeling around for the bottle of SPF 75. “I’d like to go in the water,” he said, avoiding Shiro’s gaze to watch Lance take Hunk by the elbow and point out something in the distance. They ran toward the waves, surfboards under their arms, and began paddling out from the beach.

“You? _In_ the water?” Shiro asked, dubiously.

“Yeah.” He squeezed more goop into his palm and rubbed it into his neck and ears.

“Here.” Shiro smoothed it in, wiping his thumb over Keith’s earrings where the sunscreen had collected. “But you can’t swim.”

“Yes, I can. Lance taught me.” Not that he was particularly good, he was actually quite bad at it, but there was some comfort in knowing he wouldn’t immediately drown if he fell into a body of water.

Shiro blinked at him in disbelief, digesting that statement, then taking the bottle, squeezed out a dollop and started rubbing it into Keith’s face. “You were not made for this climate.”

“Nope, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.” He squinted into the sun, wishing he’d been able to find his sunglasses. Out in the ocean, Lance caught a wave and confidently rode it back to the shore. Searching for his other friend, he eventually spotted him heading farther out. Lance might have been the resident mermaid, but Hunk was some form of cetacean, having evolved to the water from the land, as intimate with the tides and the tow from the coast as he was with the sand and the sun.

He looked over to the pavilion, Shiro’s hands grazing over his high cheekbones. Pidge sat at the bar, drinking something pink with chunks of fruit in it, buried nose deep in a novel.

Good. Everyone accounted for.

As if to fill the hush between them, Shiro spoke. “Thank you for taking me out to see my mom.”

That was unexpected. The previous morning, Keith had dragged him out to see her before he could change his mind.

“She’s pretty nice.” When Keith had appeared out of nowhere on her doorstep, she’d welcomed him in, and he’d surprised her with Shiro. He’d almost disappeared to let them have time together, but she’d caught him before he could leave and made him stay. “Do you think you’ll want to visit your dad? You know your mom will tell him.”

Shiro’s expression turned melancholic and reserved. “I really don’t know.” His father had moved back to Japan. “It’s up to him.”

“Hey!”

They both looked up as Lance waved from the edge of the ocean, tossing his board aside and sitting down on a towel. “You finally came out!” His mouth melted into a grin, gleaming with delight at this development.

Shiro reached over and smeared the last bit of sunblock in his hand on the tip of Lance’s nose. “I made him. He was going to sit inside all day and, I don’t know, sulk?”

“Well, if anyone had asked for my input-”

“We did!” Lance and Shiro said simultaneously.

“What was I drugged or something?”

Lance caught himself before he rolled his eyes and turned over onto his stomach, sand-coated feet up in the air behind him. “Yeah, probably.”

“Definitely,” Shiro confirmed.

Keith groaned, leaning back into the pile of towels he’d arranged around himself. His lungs hurt when he hit and his head had been swimming for the past several days. “I feel so gross.”

“That’s because I shot you through the chest.” Lance picked at his manicure, spreading his long, tapered fingers out before him.

Keith didn’t know what to say. It all reduced down to two things; he hurt and contrition radiated off Lance like the ripples of heat haze disguising a mirage. “Technically you saved my life. I want a smoke.”

Shiro dug around in his backpack, holding up a small box when he emerged. “Your options are nothing or the patch. I think I left the ibuprofen at the house.”

Grabbing the box, he sifted through the contents. “I swear, nursemaid Shiro is getting old fast.” He slapped the NicoDerm patch on his bicep and rolled the sleeve down to cover it up.

“I have a box of cigars back at the house, but you can’t have one until I see a doctor’s note.” Sighing, Lance sat up.

“There is a hole in my fucking lung.” It was going to be a while.

Lance threw up his hands. What could he do?

Keith changed the subject. “It’s absolutely beautiful out here.”

“I really do hope you enjoy it. My parents are happy to have us around and it’s nice to come home and give them a hand with things, you know? Waterfront real estate is a big deal here and the coastline was pretty badly eroded after the hurricane that came through last summer, so we hired this company to dredge up some sand and rebuild the beach. Sedimental Journey or something like that. Anyway, the guy tried to make a killing off this job and brought in dirt from a landfill. All the kids kept getting cut up building their sandcastles, people couldn’t go barefoot, dogs kept digging up dildos and no one knew where they were coming from. So then, the mafia got involved and told the guy to clean it up, and of course, he did, but by the time we had a beach again, tourist season was over. We lost a lot of money.”

Keith listened absently, transfixed by Hunk riding the water high near the crests of several waves. “If I didn’t know you,” he said to Lance, “I’d say you made that up.”

Closing in on the shore with impeccable balance, Hunk stepped off his board and flipped it up under his arm before making his way toward them.

“Dildos?” Shiro gaped.

“Did Shiro just say, ‘dildos?’” Hunk asked, seating himself beside Lance in the sun and showering them with drops of spray as he shook out his hair. “I didn’t think Shiro needed a dildo.”

“He doesn’t,” Keith confirmed.

“You can’t be around all the time.” Pidge interrupted, having silently made her way over to their umbrella base. In her hand, she gripped a handful of pens and a postcard that she passed over to Keith.

He took it, but set it aside. “Well, then he can wait.” Keith extended his arms out for Shiro, tenderly pulling him in to meet his kiss.

“As long as I’ve got you,” the words an utterance under Shiro’s breath when he finally pulled away, lips parted in contentment. He lay back on his elbows, just out of the shade, face tilted up toward the sun.

Keith looked at the postcard, a picture of the ocean with a beach umbrella, standard novelty fare with “la playa de Varadero” in bright pink script across the upper left corner. Flipping it over, he saw it was addressed to Allura Alforse. All Pidge had written in her neat, precise hand was, “Thanks for the fun, Princess.” Taking one of the pens, Keith signed his name in bold red ink before passing the card off.

It was justified. They’d done their time.

_We’ve already paid._


End file.
